The Wistful Skyline
The bell tower of the Old Exchange did not ring. It was a heavy, iron-throated mouth that had long since lost its voice, its tongue broken in a storm that no one could remember the year of. Silas Vane stood at the base of the tower, his hands caked in the grey dust of a life lived in the shadows of the city’s power. He was a mender of things. Clocks, mostly. But also the mechanisms of men. He...
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