The Golden Harbor
The banquet hall of the Blackwood Ironworks was a cavernous throat of soot and steam, where the air hung heavy with the copper tang of machine oil and the cloying, rotting sweetness of overripe pears, and Sergeant Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the mahogany table, his uniform pressed so tight against his ribs it felt like a second skin, watching the smoke from the chandeliers curl into the...
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