The Distant Threshold
The soot in the administrative office of the Vael Ironworks had a taste, a metallic tang that Elias Thorne had come to associate with the particular flavor of his own mediocrity. It was 1912, and the air inside the glass-walled annex, which overlooked the churning furnaces below, was thick with the scent of burning coal and the sharper, acrid odor of fear that had settled over the plant since...
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