The Faded Sutra
The brass gears of the orrery clicked against one another with a sound like dry bones, a rhythmic, mechanical whisper that filled the soot-stained air of the workshop, where Elias Thorne bent his head over the workbench, his fingers trembling slightly as he adjusted the escapement of the central sun, a delicate mechanism that tracked the movements of the planets in a miniature, perfect...
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