The Golden Maze
Act I Who can hold the shape of a thing when the thing is trying to become someone else? Khadija Farah asked the question aloud to the empty signal box, her breath misting in the cold air that seeped through the gaps in the window frame. It was 1904, and the Veldt Refinery stood at the edge of the permafrost, a sprawling beast of iron and rust that groaned against the wind. She had come here to...
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