The Golden Circuit
The hand was not merely a part of Arthur Penhaligon; it was the entirety of him, a fleshy, trembling testament to the hours he had spent hunched over the brass gears of the Chronos Engine in the basement of the Whitmore Textile Mill. He remembered the morning he had first felt the change, a subtle thickening of the knuckles, a new density to the bone that felt less like growth and more like an...
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