The Pale Mist
The glass remembers. That is the first rule of the Thorne Workshop, a fact as immutable as gravity, though far less forgiving. You know it in your marrow, in the ache of your left hand, which has begun to betray you with a tremor that mimics the hairline fracture spreading across the base of the chalice on the bench. It is December, the winter solstice is three days away, and the piece must be...
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