The Wistful Saga
The glass was cold in Elias’s hand. He held it up to the light, watching the fracture lines spider out from the center. It was not a crack. It was a shattering, frozen in time. The shard in his palm was the size of a coin. The rest lay on the stone floor of the library, glittering like ice chips. He was old. The word felt heavy in his mouth, a stone swallowed whole. His joints ached with the...
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