The Pale Verdict
The air in the Blackwood Ironworks did not smell of coal; it smelled of old blood and wet iron. Elias Vane, twelve years old and hollow-cheeked, crouched in the shadow of the primary stoker, his lungs burning with the fine, grey powder that drifted down like snow. He wanted only for Thomas to breathe. His brother lay in the damp cellar below the workers’ quarters, his chest heaving with the...
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