The Golden Scar
The train did not stop at the border. It merely slowed, a long metallic exhale, before shuddering to a halt in a station that smelled of rust and wet wool. Elias Thorne stepped onto the platform with the careful grace of a man whose body had become a foreign country to himself. He was a clockmaker by trade, a restorer of time for those who could afford the luxury, but here, in the capital of...
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