The Pale Tower
The shard in your hand is heavy, heavier than the iron tongs you used to lift the lead frames, a cold weight that sits in your palm like a stone pulled from a riverbed. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two, and your fingers are stained with the grey dust of the workshop, but it is the glass that holds your attention, the pale, translucent material that does not reflect the lantern light but seems to...
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