The Wistful Skyline
The iron clamps bit into Arthur Penhaligon’s wrists, cold and absolute, as the air in the chamber began to hum with a frequency that rattled his teeth. He stood in the center of the circular platform, the stone floor slick with condensation that smelled of ozone and old copper, while Master Vane circled him with the slow, predatory grace of a man who had never known a door that would not open...
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