The Pale Fracture
The banquet hall of the Aethelgard Institute hummed with a low, electric resonance that tasted of copper and stale ozone, a sensory profile that young Elian Thorne had spent the better part of his adolescence learning to categorize rather than enjoy. He sat amidst a sea of white-clad scholars, his fingers tight around a crystal goblet filled with the institution’s signature nutrient broth, a...
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