The Pale Fracture
The first day of the Frost brought with it a count of twelve cracked panes in the lower atrium of the Grand Spire, each shard a jagged tooth in the mouth of the glass, and I spent the morning cataloging them with the cold precision required of an archivist who knows that neglect is the first step toward ruin. I am Elias Thorne, thirty-four years old, and I have served the city’s memory for...
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