The Wistful Crossroads
The fog did not simply sit upon the Ironworks of St. Jude; it inhabited the machinery, threading itself through the steam vents and the rusted gears like a living, breathing entity that possessed a will of its own, a cold, grey consciousness that judged the sweat on the brows of the men who labored within its belly. Elara Vance stood before the great central furnace, her reflection fractured...
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