The Golden Oath
The brass gears of the orrery clicked in a rhythm so precise it seemed to breathe, a mechanical heartbeat pulsing within the cramped confines of Elias Thorne’s workshop. Outside, the winter wind howled against the leaded glass, carrying with it the distant, dull thud of artillery that had become the ambient noise of the valley. Elias, a man whose hands had mapped the contours of time for fifty...
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