The Distant Threshold
I You remember the weight of the clay, how it yields under the thumb but refuses the nail, a tension that holds the form together only as long as the kiln does not crack it. Veronica Fuentes, thirty-two years old and master ceramicist of the Dome’s lower tiers, stands before the Imperial Seal, her fingers trembling not from fear but from the precise, technical horror of a hairline fracture she...
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