Prologue

The workshop smelled of brass shavings and rain. Elias had left the door open again, as if the city might wander in and learn something useful.

On the bench lay a gear no larger than a thumbnail, its teeth filed by hand until they caught the light in quiet intervals. He set it beside a dozen others, each one a small argument for patience.

Somewhere above the roofline, the unfinished tower ticked—not loudly, not yet in time with anything, but with the stubborn rhythm of work still being understood.