The Pale Bridge
The rain did not fall so much as it was exhaled by the city, a thick, gray mist that clung to the cobblestones of the narrow alleyways and settled into the hollows of the brickwork like a second skin, a pervasive dampness that Elias Thorne had come to regard not as a weather condition but as a form of judgment, a silent, omnipresent witness to the transactions of a man who had traded his soul...
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