Evening in Iron Hearth always wore a "lazy" shade of orange—a dull, smoldering amber that seemed caught between the rows of factory chimneys and rusted corrugated roofs. A biting chill began to creep in, piercing through the seams of jackets, yet it wasn't strong enough to drive away the crowds of evening-shift workers filling the streets. The faint scent of soot mingled with the aroma of frying oil from street vendors lining the pavement.
Raphael walked with both hands buried deep in his pockets, his pace deliberately slow. Beside him, Elodie tried to match his stride, though her eyes never stopped darting toward the shop signs that were beginning to flicker with gaslight.
