The Pale Tale
The air in the subterranean vault did not smell of the earth above, nor did it carry the stale, metallic tang of the old coal mines that had long since been abandoned, but instead possessed a peculiar, sterile sweetness, like the scent of overripe fruit left to decay in a sealed jar, a scent that Elias Thorne, with his hands trembling not from cold but from a profound, vibrating exhaustion,...
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