The Golden Farce
The furnace breathed a low, orange sigh, the heat pressing against Elara’s skin like a wet wool blanket, and she held the blowpipe steady, her wrist locked in a grip that felt less like control and more like a cage of bone and tendon. It was the third hour of the night, and the air in the workshop was thick with the smell of sulfur and old dust, a scent that had soaked into the very mortar of...
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