The Golden Circuit
The clay in my hands was cold, wet, and indifferent to the fact that I had spent the last forty years of my life trying to make it speak. I sat in the back of the carriage, the wheels chugging a rhythmic, metallic lullaby against the gravel of the rural road, while the rain outside blurred the world into a smear of grey and green. My name is Elias Thorne, though I doubt anyone in this part of...
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