The Pale Circus
Elias Thorne, the clockmaker, was called out by the village elder as he packed his leather satchel, the voice cutting through the thin morning air like a blade of ice. "You leave for the monastery, Elias? The Frost is thickening on the hills. It will take your hands before it takes your life." Elias did not look up from the delicate escapement he was winding, his fingers moving with the...
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