The Golden Oath
Thorne. The voice cuts through the steam. It is not a shout, but a flat, administrative command that lands on your back like a wet stone. You do not turn. You are holding the escapement wheel, a sliver of brass no wider than your thumb, under the loupe. The light in the workshop is grey, filtered through grime and the low ceiling of the Manchester factory. You know who is standing in the...
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