The Wistful Throne
The Great Hall of the Ironworks was not a place of rest but of consumption, a cavernous mouth that swallowed the light of a thousand gas lamps and exhaled a thick, sulfurous fog that settled into the pores of every worker who lingered there after the shift had ended. It was a feast of a sort, though no one ate, for the air itself was too heavy, too laden with the metallic tang of molten ore and...
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