The iron shroud of the steam engine groaned, a low, tectonic moan that vibrated through the soles of Silas Thorne’s boots and up the marrow of his shins. He was not fighting a man, nor a beast, but the very architecture of the Imperial Court’s new industrial heart, a labyrinth of brass gears and belching coal furnaces that had swallowed the old palace gardens. The air was thick with the scent...
The fire took the roof before it took the heart.
I watched the beams crack. They screamed like wet wood. I stood in the courtyard. The rain was cold. It stung my face. My name is Elias. I was a maker of silks. My hands were stained with indigo. My hands were stained with blood. The house was mine. It was my father’s. It was my grandfather’s. Now it was ash. The smoke curled up. It smelled of...
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