The Wistful Show
The brass gears numbered forty-two, and Elias Thorne counted them twice, his thumb tracing the teeth with a callus so thick it had turned the skin into a second layer of metal. He was forty years old, an exile from a country he no longer named, and he stood in the center of the Great Hall of Blackwood Manor, the air thick with the scent of old dust and the faint, metallic tang of his own fear....
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