The Golden Scar
The great hall of the Ironworks, once a cathedral of steam and industry, had been converted into a place of quiet, suffocating celebration. It was a banquet of ash and oil, where the air hung thick with the scent of burnt ozone and the metallic tang of fear. Margaret Holloway sat at the head of the long, scarred table, her posture rigid, her hands folded in her lap as if they were two small,...
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