The Distant Metropolis
The iron latch on the cellar door had begun to sweat, a fine, corrosive mist that turned the metal into red dust under Elias Thorne’s grip. He was forty years old, a sergeant in the local constabulary, though the rank meant little here in the soot-stained depths of Blackwood Mill, where the fog did not respect uniforms or laws. His hands trembled, not from the cold, which was merely damp, but...
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