The Golden Crossing
Thorne, you absolute fool, get out of the vat before you dissolve the floorboards. Elias did not move. The sludge in the copper tank was a thick, viscous brown, smelling of iron and rot, and his hands were submerged to the elbows, the waterline cutting a sharp line across his forearms where the skin met the liquid. He was forty-two years old, a master dyer with twenty years of service at the...
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