The Wistful Ashes
The pain arrives before the glass does. It is a high, thin spike, like a needle driven into the base of your skull, and it forces your hands to tremble as you hold the molten gather. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two, and you are the only master glassblower in Sector Four who has not yet been recycled for inefficiency. You stand before the glory hole in the sterile white workshop of Aethelgard,...
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