The Faded River
The iron gates of the Foundry of the Silent Hour stood open to a sky that had forgotten how to distinguish between dawn and dusk, a perpetual twilight of rusted amber and bruised violet that hung heavy over the sprawling, soot-stained architecture of the industrial district where Elara kept her vigil. She was not human, or at least not in the way that the men in their stiff, coal-dusted coats...
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