The Pale Tower
The bill lay on the workbench, the ink still wet where the doctor had signed it. It was not a medical bill, but a final accounting of sorts, a list of hours lost to the tremor that had begun in Elias Thorne’s left hand three months prior. He stared at the paper, the numbers blurring as the afternoon light faded in the workshop, and he knew that the Grand Hall clock would not be finished in...
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