The Wistful Skyline
The fog in Oakhaven did not rise from the valley floor; it seeped up through the soil like a slow, grey blood. Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the garrison’s courtyard, his hand resting on the hilt of his sidearm, listening to the low, vibrating hum that had become the background noise of his existence for the past three months. It was a frequency that lived in the teeth, a constant, dull...
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