The Pale Meridian
The darkness in the deep shafts of Blackwood Colliery was not empty; it was a living thing, pressing against your eyes with a weight that tasted of iron and old blood. You are Elias Thorne, thirty years old, and you wake to the sound of stone screaming. It is 1893, and the central vein, the one the men called the Pale Meridian because of the faint, ghostly luminescence that clung to its quartz...
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