The Wistful Saga
The glass was not merely broken; it was annihilated, a thousand shards of obsidian light scattering across the damp, grey gravel of the moor, each fragment catching the weak, industrial dawn and throwing it back at Elias Thorne in a blinding, staccato rhythm that matched the frantic hammering of his heart. He stood there, a small, grey figure in a tweed suit that had been tailored for a clerk...
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