The Golden Cellar
The banquet hall of the Ironworks sat heavy with the scent of roasted pheasant and the metallic tang of ambition. It was a place of polished mahogany and gaslight, where the shadows seemed to cling to the walls like oil stains. Elias Thorne stood near the corner, a man of forty years who had spent two decades measuring steel and signing off on shifts that he could not truly see. He was a...
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