The Distant Wound
The train cut through the fog like a blade through gauze, carrying Elias Thorne into the heart of the city where the air tasted of ozone and rusted iron. He sat in the corner of the carriage, his spine rigid against the vibrating steel, holding a small, wax-sealed vial in his left hand. The liquid inside was a pale, viscous gold, shimmering with an unnatural luminescence that seemed to pulse in...
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