The Pale Bridge
The glass shatters not with a sound, but with a weight. It falls into your lap, a cascade of cold, sharp teeth, and you do not scream. You have practiced silence in this town for so long that it has become your second skin, tighter than the linen bodice you wear to hide the bruising on your ribs. You are in the apothecary, standing before the counter where Elias keeps his jars of tinctures and...
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