The Wistful Ashes
The pressure gauge shuddered, the needle trembling against the red line like a dying pulse. I shovelled coal into the firebox, the black chunks clattering against the iron grating, my lungs burning with the acrid taste of sulfur and old blood. This was the sub-basement of the Ironworks, a place where the air was thick enough to chew and the heat pressed against my skin like a wet blanket. My...
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