The Faded Frontier
What does a man owe the iron that has eaten his life? Chapter One The smell of wet wool and rust hung in the cellar of the foundry, a thick, greasy fog that coated the back of my throat. I sat on a stool made of scavenged oak, my hands wrapped around the cold handle of a file, working the rust off the ingot with a rhythmic, dull scrape. One hundred and nine of Corvid Lane was the address on the...
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