The Pale Verdict
The count was simple, though the weight of it was not. Elias Thorne had filed one hundred and forty-two teeth into the central pinion, a task that required the steady hand of a man who no longer felt the steadiness in his own flesh. He counted them aloud, a low whisper that died against the stone walls of the workshop, his breath forming small, visible clouds in the cold air. The Great...
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