The Pale Tower
The brass pendulum swung with a heavy, wet thud, striking the iron casing of the clock in a rhythm that Elias Thorne had known since his father’s hands first taught his to hold a screwdriver, yet today the tick did not precede the tock; the tock came first, a sharp, backward snap that pulled the air in the shop tight against his skin. Elias stood with his hand frozen above the movement, his...
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