The Wistful Petal
The name is called out from the shadows of the foundry floor. "Elias." It is not a friendly summons. It is the sharp, metallic crack of a hammer striking a cold anvil, a sound that travels through the soles of your boots and settles in your teeth. You are thirty-two years old. You are a clerk at the Ironworks. You want to keep your job. The opposing force is a column in the ledger that does not...
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