The Golden Master
The small brass gear was warm in Elias’s palm, a weight so slight it seemed to vanish against the calluses of his thumb, yet it held the entire future of the workshop in its tiny, precise teeth. He held it up to the gray light filtering through the dust-moted window, checking the polish, his breath fogging the glass of the loupe that sat on his left eye. Outside, the November wind was stripping...
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