The Faded Frontier
The rust on the iron railing was gritty under Elias Thorne’s fingers, flaking off in orange scales that stuck to the skin like dried blood. He was forty-five, and his knees ached with a dull, persistent throb that had nothing to do with the wind and everything to do with the twenty years he had spent climbing structures that were slowly being eaten by the earth. The Kessler Watchtower stood on...
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