The Distant Metropolis
The banquet hall of the Ironworks loomed before you, a cathedral of soot and brass where the air tasted of ozone and stale ambition, and you sat at the head of a table that stretched longer than any human life could reasonably span, your hands resting upon the mahogany as if they were the roots of a tree that had forgotten how to drink. You are the Architect of the Gears, a title that sounds...
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