The Faded River
The champagne in your glass is warm and flat, a fact that seems trivially absurd against the backdrop of the crystal chandeliers and the silk-draped tables of the Grand Hall, where you stand at the center of a banquet that feels less like a celebration and more like a funeral for a city that no longer exists. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, a master watchmaker whose hands have spent...
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