The Golden Circuit
The sky cracked. It did not break like ice. It shattered like glass. A web of white light spidered across the firmament, silent and absolute. The stars did not twinkle. They froze. The air turned to thick, sweet syrup. Miles Thorne dropped his pen. The ink spilled. It did not run. It stood in jagged, black crystals on the parchment. The smell of ozone was violent. It burned the back of his...
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