The Faded Dust
The ceramic vessel sits on the polished obsidian table, its surface cracked in a jagged line that runs from the rim to the base, a fissure that weeps a faint, iridescent dust when the light hits it at the precise angle of three in the afternoon, a time when the shadows in the Great Hall stretch long and thin like the fingers of ghosts reaching for a warmth they can no longer hold, and you stand...
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