The Iron Pilgrimage

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2026-06-10 19:29:17 -

The heat in the boiler room was a living thing. It pressed against my face like a palm, hot and wet and smelling of coal dust and sweat. I was nineteen and I had spent half my life down here, in the belly of New Britannia, listening to the great engines breathe. Above us, three hundred feet up in the Sky Layer, the aristocracy dined on silver plates beneath crystal chandeliers. They thought the...

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