The Golden Oath
Mara. The name hangs in the damp air, heavy and wet, like a rag wrung out over a sink. It is Elias who calls it, his voice thinning as it crosses the thirty feet of fog-choked workshop, but it feels like a summons from a court of law. You are forty-two, or so the ledger says, though the mirror in the back room has started to lie. You are a master clockmaker. Your hands, which should be steady...
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