The Faded Frontier
The iron teeth of the loom were already grinding against the silk when I realized I was holding the shuttle, my knuckles white, my breath ragged in the cold, damp air of the mill. The rhythm was violent, a mechanical heartbeat that pulsed through the floorboards and up into the bones of every worker standing in the dim, soot-stained shadows of the weaving floor. I am Arthur Pendelton, or at...
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