The Golden Myth
You are the warden. Not by title, but by duty. You have walked the perimeter of the Ironworks for forty years. The city of New Bristol sits on your back like a wet wool coat, heavy and damp. The fog rolls in from the harbor, swallowing the gaslights one by one. You know every crack in the cobblestones. You know the smell of the river, that sickly sweet rot of industry and algae. You know the...
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