The Wistful Crossroads
The glass is cooling too fast, Silas. You’re letting the heat escape. Silas stared at the glowing orb in the master’s hand, the orange light pulsing like a trapped heartbeat against the dark of the workshop. The air smelled of sulfur and stale sweat, a thick, acrid fog that clung to the back of the throat. Elias Thorne did not look up from his work, his eyes fixed on the molten center with a...
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