The Distant Ghost
The brass caliper in Elias Thorne’s hand was cold, its jaws clamped around a sample of the city’s primary load-bearing alloy. He stood at the center of the banquet table, the metal slick with condensation from the fog that seeped through the floor grates. Around him, the hall of Aethelgard was a riot of gold leaf and crystal, the air thick with the scent of roasted venison and expensive...
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