The Wistful Saga
The steam rose in thick, white plumes from the Kestrel Mill, smelling of sulfur and burnt sugar, a scent that Elias Thorne had known for twenty years since the day his brother, Thomas, had been crushed by a loose gear in the textile line. Elias stood on the catwalk above the main boiler room, his leather gloves heavy with sweat, listening to the new high-pressure engine thrum beneath his boots....
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