The Wistful Saga
The furnace breathed a low, rhythmic hiss, the sound of iron drinking heat, and Arthur Vane stood before the blast door with his clipboard tucked under his arm. He was thirty years old, a foreman with hands that had learned the language of steel before they learned the language of men, and he wanted only one thing: the shift supervisor’s badge. It was a small brass thing, no bigger than a...
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