The Wistful Cipher
The rain in this city did not fall so much as it leaked from the fog, a cold, grey seepage that soaked into the wool of Elias Thorne’s coat and made the ink in his leather satchel bleed, blurring the lines of the map he had spent three years drafting. He stood on the corner of Harrow Street, watching a shadow detach itself from the brickwork and slither across the wet cobblestones, whispering...
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