The Pale Shadows
Act I Does a man have the right to refuse his own name? I asked this on the evening of the Foundry’s gala, standing in the center of the reclaim dome where the printed streets hummed with a low, industrial thrum. The air tasted of sulfur and wet ash, the same grey dust that coats the volcano’s old skirt outside the parish. I am Ilmatar Salonen, though tonight the crowd saw only the ink crawling...
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