The Wistful Grid
14 October 1893 The fog here is not merely weather; it is a substance, thick as wool and heavy with the scent of wet rot and old stone. I have spent the last four hours in the lower corridors of the Blackwood Fort, a structure so ancient that its history is lost even to the local priests, who call it the Throat of the Earth. My hands are still shaking, not from the cold, though the temperature...
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