The Pale Meridian
The iron gate of the Old Customs House groaned under the weight of the storm, a sound that was not quite metal on metal but something older, a bone shifting in a socket that had long since calcified, and Elias Thorne felt the vibration travel up through the soles of his boots, into the marrow of his shin bones, and then, with a sickening lurch, into the very center of his chest where the cold...
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