The Wistful Mountain
The rain in Oakhaven did not fall; it hung, a grey, industrial mist that soaked into the bones of the city and the clothes of its inhabitants. Elias Vane stood in the center of the spinning floor, the air thick with the smell of wet wool and ozone, his hand clenched around a ring that burned with a heat that had nothing to do with the damp chill of the November night. He was thirty years old,...
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