“The Pale Crucible is nestled at the end of a crooked alley beneath a sun-bleached awning, the shop’s windows frosted—not from cold, but from a chemical residue that blurs all color from the panes. Shelves spill over with glassware of shifting hues, interspersed with shadowy gaps that seem immune to the glimmering lanterns. Morven Greysheen, himself marked by a swirling pattern of grey spots covering half his face, is equal parts genial and secretive. He speaks in hushed tones, offering discounts to those with tales of colorless anomalies. Occasionally, a customer glimpses spots devoid of color crawling along the walls, only for Morven to hastily cover them with drapes stitched from iridescent thread and mutter about 'the curse of sensation'. The shop always smells faintly of ozone and faded violets.”