The Faded Ruin
The first shard took three hours to fit. You count the hours as you count the stitches, a grim arithmetic that keeps the panic at bay. In the Obsidian Court, time is not measured by the sun, which is often hidden by the low, bruised clouds, but by the dripping of the ink from the ceiling. The walls bleed a black, viscous fluid that smells of iron and old blood, and you have learned that if you...
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