The Pale Shadows
The brass astrolabe sits in your hands, its surface cold and slick with the condensation of the cellar where it has been hidden for three years. The metal is warm now, having absorbed the heat of your palms, but the mechanism inside is silent, a dead heart of interlocking gears that you have spent every waking hour trying to understand. You stand in the antechamber of the Duke’s palace, the air...
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