The Golden Scar
The rain had been falling on the Ironworks for three days, a relentless, grey sheet that blurred the boundary between the sky and the smokestacks, turning the air into a thick, wet soup that coated the lungs of every man who walked the floor. Elias Thorne moved through this haze with the slow, deliberate grace of a man who had long since stopped feeling the cold. He was an older man, his hair...
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