The Pale Fracture
The quartz shard sat in Elara Vance’s palm, cold and heavy as a stone from the bottom of a deep well, its fracture line glowing with a faint, pulsing violet light that seemed to drink the grey air of the room. She was thirty-four years old, a seamstress with hands that smelled of starch and iron, and she held the fragment because it whispered her true name, a sound that cost her a drop of blood...
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