The Pale Fracture
The glass was breaking before Elias Vane could even register the sound. It did not shatter with the crisp, clean violence of a window pane in a summer storm, but with a wet, grinding tear, like ice calving off a glacier in a dark fjord. He was standing in the center of the Grand Atrium of the Ministry of Continuity, his hands raised not in defense, but in a gesture of surrender that felt, in...
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