The Pale Fracture
The silver brooch lay in Elias Thorne’s palm, cold and heavy as a river stone, its surface unmarred by the pale, creeping rot that had consumed the barracks walls and the men who slept within them. He turned it over, his thumb tracing the intricate filigree of his sister Elara’s design, a shape that had not changed since she died, while the damp air of the stone-walled barracks pressed against...
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