The Pale Fracture
The shard of obsidian, no larger than a thumbnail, lay in the center of Elias Thorne’s palm, its surface so smooth it seemed to swallow the harsh, fluorescent light of the detention center’s corridor. He turned it over, feeling the cool weight of the stone against the calluses of his hand, a small, dense anchor in a world that had begun to feel terribly thin. It was a fragment of the boundary,...
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