The Pale Exile
The rain slicked the cobblestones of Blackwood, turning the gaslight into a smear of yellow grease. You stood in the shadow of the clock tower, your twelve-year-old fingers raw and bleeding from the iron brackets. The gears above were rusted, seized, a dead heart in the chest of the city. You wanted to fix it. You wanted to prove that Elias Vane was not the son of a thief, but a man of repair....
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