The Faded Frontier
The fog does not roll in. It stands. You feel it before you see it, a pressure against your temples, a taste of iron on your tongue. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two, and your heart is a trapped bird, beating against ribs that feel too small for the cage. You want the Grey Lantern. You need it to prove that Margaret was not mad, that her visions of the white fire were not the delusions of a...
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