The Golden Scar
The fog in Oakhaven did not behave like water vapor; it behaved like a living membrane, pressing against the skin with a tangible, wet weight that smelled of oxidized copper and old blood. Elias Thorne, a sergeant of the Iron Compact, adjusted the heavy lead-lined collar of his coat, the metal biting into his neck as he moved through the square where the shadows had pooled into dark, viscous...
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