The Pale Banner
The dream was not a place of shadow or silence, but of the specific, grinding friction of rust against iron, a sensation that had worn into the very marrow of Elias Thorne’s bones over the thirty years he had spent standing watch over the ironworks in the valley of Oakhaven, a place where the air tasted perpetually of sulfur and wet coal dust and where the sky above the smoldering furnaces was...
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