The Distant Metropolis
The sky above the Ironworks of Saint Jude did not so much darken as it bruised, a deepening hematoma of violet and rust that pressed down upon the slate roofs with the weight of a physical hand, and in that suffocating, metallic silence, Elias Thorne stood on the gantry of the central blast furnace, his uniform pressed and immaculate, his face a mask of rigid, porcelain stillness that belied...
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