The Pale Circus
The air inside the Grand Meridian Circus tent did not smell of sawdust and rosin, as it should have, but of ozone and heated copper, a metallic tang that coated the back of Elias Thorne’s throat and made his teeth ache. He stood in the center of the ring, the master key of the Chronos Engine clutched in his right hand, the brass cold and slick with the sweat of his palm, while the massive gears...
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