The Wistful Throne
The glass is hot, Eamon, and the wind is screaming, so stop it." Mara’s voice cut through the roar of the furnace, sharp as a shard of flint, but I did not look up from the blowpipe. The molten gather, a glowing orange teardrop of potential, sat at the end of the iron rod, cooling by the second, demanding my breath. I could feel the heat radiating against my face, a dry, aggressive warmth that...
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