The Faded Quadrant
The blowpipe was heavy, a stick of steel tipped with molten amber, and Elias Thorne held it with a grip that white-knuckled the leather gloves. The furnace roared, a low, constant thrum that vibrated in his teeth, turning the air into a thick, golden soup. He was forty-two, his shoulders broad and scarred, and he was working to pay off a debt that had swallowed his shop. The commission was the...
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