The Pale Tower
The brass astrolabe sits upon the velvet cushion in the center of the table, its gears still, its needles drifting in a slow, hypnotic circle, and I watch it with the detached fascination of a man observing a disease spreading through his own veins, knowing full well that the instrument is not merely measuring time but consuming it, and that I am the fuel, the dry wood in the hearth of its...
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