The Pale Path
The soot of Ashford did not merely settle; it invaded, a fine, grey particulate that worked its way into the weave of clothes and the creases of skin, a constant reminder that the city was a machine consuming itself to keep the gears turning. Elias Thorne stood in the narrow aisle of his workshop, the air thick with the scent of brass filings and the stale, metallic tang of the Pale Path that...
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