The Pale Altar
The clock face stared back at Elias Thorne, a blank, white eye in the gloom of the shop. He lifted his hands, trembling so violently that the brass calipers slipped from his grip and clattered against the workbench. The gray rot had reached his knuckles, a patchy, ashen discoloration that pulsed faintly with every beat of his heart. He had twenty-four hours to finish the Grand Cathedral Clock,...
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