The Pale Exile
The brass gear sat in your palm, cold and smooth, its teeth worn to a dull shine by years of friction. It was a standard escapement wheel, nothing more, yet it vibrated against your skin with a frequency that felt less like sound and more like a low, persistent hum in the marrow of your bones. You set it on the workbench, the wood scarred by decades of knife marks and oil stains, and looked out...
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