The Faded Dust
The rain lashed against the high, arched windows of the workshop like a thousand small fists, blurring the view of the moor into a gray smear, while inside, Elias Thorne stood hunched over the Great House’s ancestral chronometer, his fingers trembling as he tried to coax a tick from the dead heart of the mechanism. The air was thick with the smell of ozone and old oil, and dust motes hung...
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