The Wistful Crossroads
In the hollow of his palm, the brass astrolabe was warm, a heavy, circular weight that seemed to pulse with a faint, metallic heat. Elias held it up to the candlelight, his thumb tracing the central axis where a hairline fracture had begun to spread, a thin white scar in the golden metal. The instrument was the King’s own, a tool of celestial calculation, yet it felt less like a device and more...
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