The Distant Nightmare
Thorne. The name is called out by the shift supervisor, a sharp bark that cuts through the rhythmic thud of the hammers and the hiss of steam, and you turn your head, feeling the heat press against the back of your neck like a physical weight. You are thirty years old, and you have spent twenty of them in the Blackwood Foundry, your skin permanently stained with the soot of the city’s industry,...
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