The Pale Path
The coal car smelled of sulfur and wet iron, a scent that had seeped into Elias Thorne’s wool coat over the three days he had ridden north. He sat with his back against the corrugated steel wall, his knees drawn up to his chest. His hands were resting on his lap, still, pale as bone. In the center of his palms lay the object. It was a brass astrolabe, tarnished by salt air and time, its...
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