The Distant Joke
The lantern is cold. It is always cold, even when the flame burns hot inside the glass. You hold it in your right hand, the iron ring biting into your palm, and the reflection in the rusted metal is not your face. It is a smear of gray and black, a void where the eyes should be. "You look like hell, Elias," Vane says, but his voice is distant, muffled by the sound of breaking glass. You try to...
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