The Wistful Incense
The rain against the soot-blackened windows of the factory district did not wash the world clean; it merely made the grime slicker, a cold, oily film that clung to the skin of the city and the skin of the men who worked within its iron ribs. Elias Vane stood at the center of the weaving floor, his hands moving with a mechanical precision that betrayed no fatigue, no hunger, no fear. To the...
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