The Faded Frontier
The glass cracked. It was a small sound. A dry snap, like a twig under a boot. Margaret held the shard. It was jagged. Sharp. It cut her thumb. A bead of blood welled up. Red. Vivid. Against the pale green of the leaf. The hall was silent. High ceilings. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light. The air smelled of old paper and ozone. The Court was not a place. It was a feeling. A weight. She...
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