The Pale Fracture
The mark was not a scar, but a letter, etched in ink that had long since dried into the skin of Elias Thorne’s left wrist. It was a simple glyph, a jagged fracture line that seemed to pulse with a faint, sickly luminescence only when the air grew still. Elias had carried it for three years, a secret weight in his pocket, a brand of something he could not name. He was a man of few words and many...
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