The Faded Dust
The banquet hall of the old ironworks was a cavern of soot and shadow, lit only by the sputtering gas lamps that hung from the rafters like dying stars. We were gathered there, the remnants of the crew, to mark the anniversary of the Great Fire, a ritual that had become less about remembrance and more about endurance. The air was thick with the smell of stale beer and the metallic tang of the...
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