The Wistful Asylum
The ledger sat on the workbench, its pages swollen with the damp that seeped through the floorboards of the workshop, and Elias Thorne counted the hours remaining until the sun would burn low enough for the Baron’s men to enter without blinding him, forty-three hours, thirty-two of which had already been lost to the grinding of the chime wheel’s teeth, a sound like a man clearing his throat...
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