The Wistful Skyline
The banquet hall of the Ironworks sat in the center of the valley like a golden eye staring up at the churning, soot-stained sky, a place where the air tasted of copper and burnt sugar and where the machines did not merely produce steel but seemed to breathe, their pistons heaving in a rhythmic, terrible pulse that I felt in my own teeth. We had gathered there, the hundreds of us, the...
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