The Distant Blade
The air in the counting house of the Whitmore Foundry tasted of copper and wet ash, a metallic tang that coated the back of Elias’s throat and settled in the creases of his collar, a residue of the labor that had defined his existence since the day he was born into the soot-stained corridors of this industrial labyrinth. He stood before the massive oak desk, his hands trembling not from the...
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