The Pale Path
Your left hand presses the wet lead came into the groove, the tallow-scented flux bubbling slightly as the soldering iron kisses the joint, while the fog outside the high court’s arched windows presses against the stone like a living thing seeking entry. You are Elias Thorne, and the Great Window must be finished before the solstice, a deadline dictated not by art but by the King’s need for a...
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