The Pale Banner
The fog rolled in from the harbor, thick and grey, tasting of salt and coal smoke. It swallowed the iron bridges and the brick facades of the textile mills, reducing the city to a blurred outline of shadows. Inside the drafting room, the air was stale, recycled through pipes that hummed with a low, mechanical thrum. Clara Vane sat at her desk, her fingers stained with graphite and ink. She was...
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