The Faded River
The glass was broken. Not shattered, not exploded, but fractured in a long, jagged vein that ran from the corner of the eye to the temple, like a crack in a frozen lake. Elias Thorne stood in the center of the room, holding the shard in his bare hand. The pain was distant, a dull throb behind his ribs, less physical than existential. He did not bleed. Or if he did, the blood was invisible,...
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