The Golden Maze
The workshop smelled of beeswax, old varnish, and the sharp, metallic tang of fear. Elias Thorne sat hunched over his workbench, his fingers stained black with ink and gold leaf, moving with a frantic, birdlike precision. He was not merely a clockmaker; he was an architect of time, or so the village believed, though they whispered that his clocks did not tell the hours, but stole them. The...
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