The Faded Dust
The air in the boiler room of the Ashworth Ironworks tasted of sulfur and old rust, a metallic tang that clung to the back of Elias Thorne’s throat like a physical weight, a sensation that had become so intimate over the last three decades that he could no longer distinguish the taste of the furnace from the taste of his own blood, which was thick and dark and carrying the specific, cloying...
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