The Pale Fracture
The banquet hall was not built of stone or wood, but of suspended ash and the memory of smoke, a cavernous void where the air tasted of copper and old rain. You sat at the long table, your hands steady, your spine straight, the way you had been trained to hold yourself since you were a boy scrubbing the grime from the looms in the lower districts. Around you, the other Artificers raised their...
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