The Wistful Mirror
The first shell struck the earth three hundred yards away, a thunderclap that turned the air into a physical blow against the chest. Elias Thorne did not flinch. He stood before the crucible, the blowpipe steady in his hands, the molten gather glowing with a fierce, arterial orange. The workshop was a tomb of silence and heat, sealed against the world outside, but the world was breaking...
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