The Golden Mirror
The brass astrolabe sat on the mahogany desk, its intricate gears frozen in a pose of perpetual, silent inquiry. It was an object of such precise and cold geometry that it seemed to hold the air around it in a state of suspended animation, a pocket of stasis in the chaotic draft of the library. Arthur Pendelton, a man whose face had been weathered by decades of staring into the voids of other...
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