The Pale Meridian
The brass compass lay on the stone table, its face clouded with a film of dust that Elias Thorne wiped away with the hem of his tunic, counting the seconds between the low, persistent hum that rattled the tea cups and the silence that followed. He had been polishing the same spot for twenty minutes, his thumb moving in small, circular motions against the cold metal, aware that the vibration in...
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