The Wistful Show
The Ironworks breathed. It was a low, tectonic exhalation that vibrated in the marrow of Elias Thorne’s bones, a sound so constant he had stopped hearing it as noise and started hearing it as a threat. He stood alone in the central atrium, a cathedral of rusted iron and weeping steam, the air thick with the scent of ozone and old blood. The Bureau’s order was simple: dismantle the central gear....
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