The Pale Fracture
The porcelain bowl shatters on the flagstones, a sound like a bone snapping under the weight of a boot. You stand in the center of the Great Hall of the Ministry of Aesthetics, the shards glittering in the gaslight, each fragment a perfect, curved mirror reflecting a fractured version of your face. Around you, the banquet continues. The air is thick with the scent of roasted pheasant and the...
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