The Pale Fracture
The glass did not break; it unmade itself, shattering into a thousand silent motes of light that dissolved before they touched the stone floor. Silas Vane stood in the center of the apothecary’s workshop, his hands still raised in the defensive posture he had learned over three lifetimes, watching the last of his inventory vanish into the ether. The air tasted of ozone and old copper, a...
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