Prologue

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Echoes of the Turning Wheel

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Echoes of the Turning Wheel

Echoes of the Turning Wheel

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In the shadow of a clock that chimes,

Through threads of gold and threads of grime,

A wheel turns slow, a wheel turns fast,

A circle unbroken, binding future and past.



The clock strikes eleven, the hour unsure,

An omen of change, a path obscure.

What once was broken, what once was lost,

Shall rise anew, but at what cost?



The sands of time slip through the hand,

A thousand grains, a fleeting strand.

Each grain a choice, a love, a sin,

A whispered plea: What might have been?



The architect stands on a fragile line,

A builder of dreams, of truths malign.

His hands, both maker and unmaker be,

Bound by a vision none else could see.



Yet visions blur, as mirrors crack,

Reflections lost in the endless black.

Renatus || ArcaneWhere stories live. Discover now