The Faded Root
The banquet hall of the Ashworth Foundry smelled of roasted goose and industrial grease, a pungent cocktail that coated the back of the throat and settled in the lungs like fine dust. Thomas Ashworth stood at the center of the long mahogany table, the wood scarred by decades of forks and spilled wine, his hands resting on the polished surface as if testing its temperature. The room was a...
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