The Golden Crossing
The watch was not merely a timepiece but a living thing, a golden eye that blinked in the dark with the slow, deliberate rhythm of a predator’s breath, and it hung around the neck of Silas Thorne not as jewelry but as a brand, a heavy, circular weight that pulled at the sternum and anchored him to the earth even as the wind of the moors tried to lift him into the gray, weeping sky above, and...
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