The Pale Mist
The chalice is flawed. Elias Thorne did not look up from the furnace. The heat inside the workshop was a physical weight, pressing against his eardrums, a dry and roaring silence that swallowed the sound of his own breathing. He held the blowpipe in his left hand, the glass glowing a molten orange at its tip, and his right hand worked the block, shaping the neck with a precision that felt less...
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