The Pale Mist
The fog did not simply enter the factory; it seeped into the very marrow of the iron girders and the lungs of the men who worked beneath them, a thick, grey broth that tasted of coal smoke and the metallic tang of old blood. Elias Thorne stood at the head of the inspection line, a figure of such austere dignity that the younger apprentices often forgot he was a man and saw instead a statue...
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