The Wistful Saga
The gas lamps in the attic of the Whitmore Institute flickered with a sickly, amber pulse, casting long, trembling shadows that stretched across the floorboards like the grasping fingers of the dead, illuminating the shattered remains of the great astrolabe that Elias Thorne had spent the better part of two decades perfecting, a device of such intricate brass and silverwork that it had once...
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