The Wistful Ashes
The glass had not broken all at once; it had wept over the course of three days, a slow, crystalline hemorrhage that turned the Ministry’s central atrium into a field of jagged teeth. Elias Vance stood on the second-floor gallery, his boots crunching on the debris, watching the light filter through the shattered roof in fractured beams that illuminated the dust swirling in the stagnant air. He...
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