The Pale Bonsai
The sky above the city of Ashford did not fall so much as it dissolved, peeling away in long, translucent sheets of gray vapor that revealed, for a terrible and fleeting second, the raw, bleeding nerve of the void behind it, before the clouds reformed, thicker and more oppressive than before, trapping the breath of three million souls in a humid, metallic cage. Marcus Thorne stood in the center...
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