The Distant Metropolis
The glass case is broken. You know this because the shards are scattered across the floorboards like frozen rain, and because your own hands are trembling so violently that you can barely keep the door of the armory from banging shut. The air in the small, windowless room smells of iron filings and old dust, a scent that has permeated your lungs for so many years that you can no longer...
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