Elara was a Weaver of the High Glass, responsible for maintaining the crystalline facades that gave the city its shimmer. She was the most meticulous of all, her record spotless for twenty years. But one Tuesday, Elara found the smudge. It wasn't on a building; it was on her own wrist—a small, jagged birthmark that had suddenly darkened, as if a drop of ink had bloomed beneath her skin.
"You're terrified of a little bit of color," Kael said, noticing her frantic attempts to hide her wrist. He held up a piece of steel. It was rough and dull, but when he struck it with a hammer, it didn't shatter like the city's perfect glass. "Pure iron is soft, Elara. It’s the carbon—the 'impurity'—that makes it steel. It’s what gives it the strength to hold up the world." Impurities
Elara looked at her wrist. The violet mark wasn't a defect; it was a sign of her body’s history, a unique mutation in a world of clones. She realized then that Oakhaven wasn't perfect because it was pure; it was fragile because it was sterile. The glass was beautiful, but it was cold. Elara was a Weaver of the High Glass,