The Pale Bridge
The air in the foundry town of Oakhaven did not merely smell of sulfur and burnt iron; it tasted of it, a metallic tang that coated the back of the throat and settled in the lungs like fine, grey dust. It was a place where the sky was perpetually bruised, a heavy canvas of charcoal and rust suspended above the sprawling labyrinth of brick kilns and soot-blackened chimneys that dominated the...
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