The Wistful Mountain
The glass shattered. It did not break like a window. It did not shatter like ice. It exploded outward from the center, a violent bloom of fragments that sprayed across the stone floor. I stood in the center of the explosion. My hands were empty. They had always been empty. But for a moment, I held the shape of it. I held the weight of the silence that followed. The air in the Great Hall was...
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