The Pale Dance
The fog in Oren did not merely obscure the streets; it seemed to possess a tangible weight, pressing against the windows of the clerk’s office like a damp, grey hand. Elias Thorne sat at his desk, the ink on his pen drying slowly, while the city outside hummed with a low, static buzz that the locals called the Breath. He was thirty years old, a man of modest means and precise habits, employed...
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