The Golden Ritual
The brass gears numbered four hundred and twelve, each one weighed to the milligram, yet Elias Thorne’s hands shook so violently that the tweezers slipped three times before he could seat the escapement. The workshop was cold, the air thick with the smell of oil and rust, and the silence was so profound that he could hear the tick of his own pulse in his ears, a metronome counting down a debt...
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