The Faded Frontier
The dream is always the same. A rusted iron gate, breathing in the fog, its hinges grinding against the silence of your lungs. You wake with soot in your throat, the taste of coal and defeat thick on your tongue. It is 1912, and the air in the mill town is heavy, a physical weight that presses against your chest. You are twelve years old, Elias Wren, a stoker whose hands are cracked and...
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