The Wistful Skyline
The banquet hall of the Ironworks was a cavern of soot and steam, the air thick with the scent of roasted meat and the sharp, metallic tang of ozone. We sat at the long oak table, the men in their stiff collars and the women in their heavy silks, all of us watching the gears turn. I was not merely an observer; I was the gear. My spine was the central axle, my ribs the housing, and my breath the...
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