The Distant Blade
The fog in the foundry did not rise so much as it accumulated, a thick, oily gray sludge that settled in the lungs before it ever touched the eyes. Elias Thorne stood in the center of the vast, echoing floor, his boots sinking slightly into the grime that had built up over decades of iron and sweat. He was not here to work. He was here to remember. Or perhaps, to forget. The distinction had...
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