The Distant Journey
The banquet hall of the Ironworks smelled of roasted goose, burnt coal, and the metallic tang of ambition, a thick, suffocating perfume that clung to the velvet damask of the chairs and settled deep into the pores of the skin, leaving a residue that no amount of cologne or scrubbing with lye soap could ever quite wash away. Elias Thorne sat at the far end of the long oak table, his fingers...
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