The Pale Mist
The glass of the great conservatory shatters not with a single, decisive crack, but with a cascading, wet thunder that seems to swallow the sound of your own breathing, and in that instant the air is filled with a blinding, crystalline snow that hangs suspended in the golden light of the afternoon, a storm of shards that cuts the skin of your cheek and mixes with the blood until you can no...
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