The Pale Fracture
The bruise on Thomas’s jaw was the color of old slate, a dull, swollen thing that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. He stood in the center of the grain hall, the air thick with the smell of damp wheat and the metallic tang of blood. The silence that followed the scuffle was not empty; it was heavy, a physical weight that pressed against his eardrums, forcing him to listen to the shallow rasp...
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