The Pale Fracture
Act I Did the frost come to take what was owed, or did the vine come to take what was stolen? Mieczyslaw Pawlak stood in the grey mud of the reclamation yard, his boots sinking into the wet earth that smelled of iron and rot. He was thirty-four, a toll-bridge widow’s husband in name only, and his hands were raw from gripping the handle of a blade that had seen better years. The heatwave had...
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