The Pale Tower
The glass did not shatter. It did not crack, nor did it spider-web into a constellation of fractures. It simply ceased to be transparent. In one instant, the pane of the storefront window in the narrow street of Ashworth Lane turned opaque, a flat, milky disc of absolute nothingness. It was a silence louder than a scream. Inside, Elias Thorne dropped a roll of indigo wool. He stood frozen, his...
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