The Distant Clue
The iron lungs of the foundry breathed in the dark, a rhythmic, mechanical heaving that seemed less like machinery and more like the slow, agonized respiration of some vast, buried beast, and within that suffocating, coal-dusted twilight, Elias Thorne stood with his hands clasped behind his back, watching the molten gold pour into the molds with a reverence that felt indistinguishable from...
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