The Faded Portrait
The banquet hall of the Ironworks sat atop the city’s highest ridge, a cathedral of riveted steel and stained glass that caught the dying light of the industrial age. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of roasted pheasant, beeswax, and the metallic tang of the great engines that hummed beneath the foundation. Margaret Holloway stood at the edge of the floor, her hands clasped tightly...
0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews