The Pale Fracture
The wind did not howl; it scraped, a dry, metallic sound that seemed to strip the paint from the world. Elara Vane sat in the back of the moving cart, her fingers tracing the frayed edge of her wool coat, the fabric thick and heavy, designed to hide the shimmering, glass-like scar that pulsed faintly beneath her skin. The Pale Fracture, they called it, a mark of impurity that spread if the...
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