The Golden Master
The rain in Ashford did not fall; it hung, a grey curtain of steam and coal dust that smelled of wet iron and decay. I left my workshop at dawn, the key still warm in my hand, the city’s prejudice pressing against my back like a physical weight. For forty years, I had been Elias Thorne, the watchmaker, but for the last three, I had been Elias Thorne, the Tainted. The Golden Master was no longer...
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