The Distant Wound
The frost did not merely settle upon the cobblestones of Aethelgard that morning; it invaded, a crystalline rot that shattered the very air into jagged, screaming shards, and I stood there, Elias Vane, with my hands still sticky from the blood of the glass I had been trying to mend, watching the Great Mirror of the Citadel split down its center with a sound like the breaking of a thousand...
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