The Distant Metropolis
The dampness of the cellar clings to your skin like a second, heavier garment, and in the guttering light of the single tallow candle, the silver circlet in your hands feels less like metal and more like a living thing, humming with a low, discordant vibration that you are certain, with a terror that is rapidly becoming a familiar companion, is the only thing in the world that truly knows you....
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