The Pale Fracture
The torch hisses against the molten gather, a bright, angry tongue licking the glass as you pull it from the glory hole. Your hand is steady, a habit of twenty years, but the heat is a physical weight, pressing against the back of your eyes. You are Elias, forty-two, a master glassblower in the high court of the Pale Fracture, and you are trying to forget the dream. In the dream, a mirror does...
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