The door was heavy. It groaned under the weight of centuries. Elias pushed it open. The air inside was stale. It smelled of dust and old blood. He stepped into the room. The floor was cold stone. It was damp. A single light flickered in the corner. It was a lantern. The flame was blue. It did not burn. It hovered. Elias felt a chill. It was not cold. It was fear.
He had come here to find her....
The ironworks breathed, a great metallic lung that expanded and contracted with the rhythm of the furnace, exhaling plumes of sulfurous gray into the twilight air of the industrial valley. It was a place where the sky was perpetually bruised, where the rain fell not as water but as a fine, acidic mist that settled in the crevices of the skin and the rusted joints of the machinery. In the shadow...
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