The Pale Bridge
The dream was always of the glass. Not the windowpanes of the manor house, nor the mirrors that hung in the corridors like frozen lakes, but the body itself, specifically the right hand of Sir Alistair Thorne, the High Warden of the Court. In the dream, Alistair looked down at his fingers and saw that the skin had turned to translucent crystal. He flexed his knuckles, and the sound was not the...
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