The Faded Frontier
The vial in my hand hums with a frequency that I can feel in the marrow of my teeth, a low, thrumming vibration that tastes of iron and old pennies. It is the autumn of 1893, and the air in the Millard Company’s apothecary annex is thick with the smell of sulfur and damp wool, a scent that has settled into the pores of my skin over the last twelve years of service. I am Elias Thorne, forty...
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