The Pale Exile
The pneumatic drill had been screaming at the foundation of the new exchange for three hours, a high-pitched mechanical shriek that vibrated through the soles of my boots and into the marrow of my teeth. I stood on the edge of the excavation pit, my hands trembling not from the cold, but from the sheer, overwhelming weight of the air around me. The city of London was a grid of iron and steam, a...
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