The Shadow of the Foundry
At first light, Eliza wrapped her thick wool shawl around her shoulders and walked down the steep mountain trail toward the Blackwood town square. Smoke rose from the brick chimneys of the general store, the blacksmith, and the steepled town hall, giving an illusion of frontier tranquility.
Yet behind the facade, towering over the northern gorge, stood the monolithic brick facade of Mercer Ironworks. Officially, it ran on water wheels and steam, producing iron ore for the westward expansion. But its high iron gates remained chained shut to common folk, guarded by Mercer’s private wardens—armed men in long oilskin dusters.
Eliza entered the apothecary shop run by her uncle, Silas, a man who had served on the town council for forty years.
"Uncle Silas," she began casually, setting down a basket of dried winterberry and pine sap on the counter. "Did my father ever leave records regarding the autopsies after the 1888 foundry fire?"
Silas paused, his hand freezing over a glass jar of tincture. His ruddy face drained of color. He stepped quickly to the door, turning the brass lock and drawing the velvet curtain over the glass.
"Why are you asking about that cursed winter, Eliza?" Silas whispered, his voice cracking with fear.
"Because the dead aren't buried beneath the soil," she replied, placing the clean, washed silver cylinder onto the glass counter between them. "They are manufacturing steel beneath the mountain, and someone is putting clockwork into their heads."
May you like
Silas stared at the silver shard. His eyes filled with an old, suffocating guilt.
"I told your father to burn his journals," Silas breathed, trembling. "I told him Arthur Mercer owned the judges, the marshals, and the governor himself."
