The Wistful Mountain
The banquet hall of the Ironwood Institute smelled of burnt sugar and stale tobacco. It was a sprawling, industrial space, all riveted steel beams and high, barred windows that let in the grey November light of the North Country. Clinking glasses and low, murmured voices filled the air, a hum that sounded suspiciously like the distant thrum of a locomotive. Elias Thorne sat at the far end of a...
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