The Faded Frontier
The mist did not smell of rain, but of cold iron and old blood, seeping from the teeth of the Great Chime’s gears with a wet, rhythmic hiss. You stood before the mechanism, your hands trembling not from age, but from the freezing paralysis that crept up your wrists with every tick of the escapement. Mara lay three rooms away, her breath shallow and ragged, the wasting sickness having hollowed...
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