The Pale Fracture
The air in the Conservatory of St. Jude’s Academy smelled of wet chalk and crushed ferns, a scent that had permeated the wool of Elias Thorne’s coat for the last three years of his tenure. He stood before the glass pane that separated the inner sanctum from the courtyard, his breath fogging the surface in a small, trembling cloud. Outside, the autumn rain fell in gray sheets, blurring the stone...
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