The Pale Fracture
The rain did not fall so much as it insisted, a relentless, gray curtain that turned the cobblestones of the lower district into a slick, treacherous mirror reflecting the flickering gaslights and the weary, hollowed faces of those who dared to walk after dusk. Elias Thorne stood under the narrow eave of a shuttered apothecary, his leather coat damp and heavy, the scent of wet wool and...
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