The Pale Fracture
The banquet hall of the Ministry of Continuity was a cathedral of cold glass and humming machinery, suspended above the gray, churning mist of the lower city. It was a place where light did not fall so much as it was manufactured, projected from the ceiling in long, sterile beams that picked out the dust motes dancing in the still air. Here, the air smelled of ozone and polished oak, a scent...
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