The Distant Promise
The feast was not of food, but of steam. It poured from the vents of the Harrowgate Ironworks in a thick, sulfurous fog that tasted of copper and old blood, settling on the skin of every worker like a wet shroud. Elias Thorne stood at the center of the chaos, his hands steady on the pressure gauges, his eyes scanning the jagged dance of needles that defied the logic of the machine. He was...
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