The Pale Fracture
The obsidian is cold, a jagged shard of volcanic glass that cuts the pad of your thumb. It sits on the drafting table, black and absolute, contrasting with the pale vellum of the Grand Hall blueprints. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, a senior architect in the Ministry of Aesthetics, and you have six hours before the dawn deadline. You want to submit these plans. You want to secure...
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