The Wistful Mountain
The brass astrolabe sat in Elias’s palm, cold and heavy, its rings tight against his calloused fingers. He was fifty-two, a master clockmaker from the provincial town of Oakhaven, and he had walked for three days to reach Vael, the ancient city of gears and ledgers, to secure the pension that had eluded him for a decade. The air in Vael smelled of oil and wet stone, a sharp, metallic tang that...
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