The Pale Meridian
The iron bell hung from the rafter by a chain of links so thick they had fused into a single, heavy serpent of metal, its surface pitted by decades of damp air and the slow, relentless erosion of time, waiting in the gloom of the workshop like a sleeping beast that only stirred when the hand of the master struck it with a force that seemed to vibrate in the marrow of the stone walls. Elias...
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