The Pale Altar
The silence in the Aetheric Foundry was not an absence of sound but a heavy, viscous substance, thick enough to taste on the tongue, a metallic tang that coated the teeth and settled in the hollows of the throat where the air had been replaced by the perpetual, humming vibration of the Great Engines. Elias Thorne sat in his workshop, a pocket of dim, amber light suspended in the center of the...
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