The Pale Tower
The pressure gauge on the main boiler ticked over to two hundred pounds, a sound like a slow, heavy heartbeat echoing off the soot-blackened walls. Elias Thorne watched the needle hold steady, his grip white-knuckled on the iron wrench, counting the minutes until the whistle blew and he could walk out of this hell to buy flour for the week. The heat in the boiler room was a physical weight, a...
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