The Wistful Skyline
The rot began in the tips of his fingers, a greyish-black necrosis that spread with the slow, deliberate patience of a tide, and Elias Thorne watched it creep across the knuckles with the detached, clinical horror of a man observing a chemical reaction gone wrong. He was forty-five years old, an alchemist of the old school, and he had not touched another human being in three years, for the...
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