The Wistful Throne
The fog did not rise from the harbor so much as it bled out of the cobblestones, a thick, gray sludge that tasted of rust and forgotten things. Elias Thorne stood at the iron gates of the precinct, his service revolver cold in his right hand, the metal biting into his palm with a clarity that was the only solid thing left in a world dissolving into whisper. He had waited three hours for the...
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