The Distant Machine
The Guildmaster’s voice cuts through the workshop air, sharp and brittle as a snapped mainspring, calling my name with a disdain that makes the dust motes seem to freeze in the shaft of light. "Holloway," he says, not looking up from his ledger, "you will present your entry for the Royal Commission by dawn, or your name is struck from the register." I am thirty-four years old, a master...
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