The Faded Chronicle
In the dream, the letters were made of glass, and they shattered against the cobblestones with a sound like breaking ice. Elias woke with the taste of iron in his mouth, the residual chill of the London fog still clinging to the sheets. He lay still for a long moment, listening to the city breathe. It was a deep, industrial respiration, the groan of steam pipes and the distant clatter of carts,...
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