The Golden Master
The fog did not smell of rain, but of rust and old copper, a metallic tang that coated the back of Elias Thorne’s throat as he held the golden gear under the loupe. He was forty-two, though the lines around his eyes suggested a man who had lived two lifetimes in the cramped, ticking silence of his workshop in Oakhaven, and his hands, steady enough to balance a hair on a pivot, trembled now with...
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