The Wistful Witness
The first strike did not come from a hand, but from the air itself, a tearing of the sky that left a jagged, violet scar above the obsidian towers of the Citadel. Elias Thorne did not flinch, for his body had long since ceased to belong to the man who had once fled the rain-slicked cobblestones of London with nothing but a suitcase and a heart full of ash. He stood now in the center of the High...
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