The Distant Clue
The air in the workshop did not merely cool; it congealed, a thick, viscous stagnation that settled upon the skin like a shroud. Elias Thorne, forty years old and bent under the weight of a debt that had outlived its debtor, stood before the crucible, his breath pluming in the sudden, unnatural chill. He was a glassblower of modest renown, a man whose hands had coaxed fire into form for two...
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