The Golden Master
The candles in the Guild Hall burned low, their tallow smoke curling into the rafters where shadows pooled like stagnant water. Elias Thorne stood before the Great Clock, his hands trembling not with age, but with the weight of the debt that bound him to the city’s machinery. He was forty years old, a master clockmaker whose name was whispered with a mixture of respect and pity, for he was the...
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