The Wistful Crossroads
The gears are slipping in your teeth. You know this before you look down. The golden mist is thick today, clinging to your forearms like wet wool. You are Elias Thorne, thirty-four, and your hands are shaking as you hold the central escapement of the Great Bell. This is not a repair. This is a theft. The Guild forbids independent work, yet the town’s time is bleeding out. You want to prove you...
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