The Pale Tale
The brass gear turned. It should not have turned. Elias Thorne stood in the center of his workshop, the air thick with the smell of oil and old dust, watching the escapement of the Meridian Engine tick against the silence. It was a small movement, a whisper of metal, but in the stillness of the shop, it sounded like a heartbeat. He reached out, his fingers trembling, and touched the rim of the...
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