The Faded Alibi
The iron whistle shrieked across the yard of Blackwood Foundry, a sound that cut through the morning fog like a blade through wet cloth. Thomas Bradshaw stood at the center of the floor, his hands steady on the hilt of a short, unpolished bar of steel. It was not a sword in any traditional sense, but a tool of war he had forged in the heat of his own obsession. Around him, the furnace roared,...
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