The Night Glass
About the Story
In a fog-hemmed city where sound is harvestable, a glassblower’s apprentice follows a woven shard to rescue stolen voices. Armed with lenses, a needle, and a resilient silence, she confronts a grief-stricken weaver and learns how to mend what was taken without making ghosts of those she saves.
Chapters
Related Stories
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The Bone Orchard
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Crown of Veils
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Sable Covenant
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Stitchlight of Brinefell
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Ratings
Reviews 10
Okay, wow. The premise hooked me — harvestable sound? Yes please. I loved the urban grit of Lornhaven ("black buildings rose like teeth") and how the magic is simultaneously industrial and fragile. Edda's toolkit — lenses, a needle, resilient silence — feels believable and specific. The scene where the glass hisses like a creature exhaling made me stop and reread it. I also appreciated the moral nuance: confronting the weaver wasn't about defeating evil but understanding loss. The pacing is deliberate, maybe a hair slow in places, but honestly that suits the melancholic tone. Stellar work.
There's a melancholic elegance here that I couldn't resist. The worldbuilding reads like an old map — detailed edges but open waters — and Edda as a glassblower-apprentice-heroine is refreshingly grounded. My favorite scene: Edda timing the bell with the pulse in her throat; such a simple, intimate moment that says everything about her connection to sound. The woven shard pursuit and the ethical resolution with the weaver made me think about restoration vs. resurrection in a new way. This is a thoughtful dark fantasy with real heart.
I finished this in one sitting. The author writes sensory scenes like a smith handles metal: with heat and precision. Edda is such a strong protagonist — hands steady at the furnace, mouth set — and I loved how her hearing is translated into touch. The Tin of Marius (A SECOND CHIME) is such a poignant prop, and the Lantern Parade countdown adds a delicious deadline buzz. Favorite moment: when the molten limb of glass shivers under her thumb; it's written so precisely you feel the shiver too. Dark, melancholic, and ultimately generous. Highly recommend.
I wanted to like this more than I did. The premise — a city where sound can be harvested and stored — is intriguing, and the prose has some gorgeous lines (the kilns smelling of "old sugar and iron" is unforgettable). But the pacing felt uneven: the early scenes luxuriate in craft and atmosphere while the actual investigation of the woven shard and the confrontation with the weaver resolve too quickly. I also wanted clearer consequences for the choice to "mend what was taken without making ghosts." It reads almost like an outline for a longer novella rather than a fully rounded short story. That said, the characters are likable and the mood is strong; I just wish it dug deeper into the stakes.
This story felt like slow, deliberate breathing — a poem in prose. I especially admired how the author used craft language (glassblowing vocabulary, tactile metaphors) to build a magic system that feels earned. The confrontation with the grief-stricken weaver was heartbreaking: not a villain but someone harmed by sorrow, and Edda's choice to fix voices without creating ghosts made me think about what healing actually costs. The pieces about the sea "that remembered every thing it had swallowed" are haunting. I teared up reading the part about Marius carrying his own voice in a dented tin. Beautifully done.
If you like moody urban fantasy with a craft-focused protagonist, this is for you. I loved the texture — glass hissing as it cooled like "a living thing exhaling" is such a vivid image — and the way sound is harvestable felt original and symbolic. The woven shard scene (when Edda decides to follow it) had real tension; you feel the apprentice's determination in every tactile detail. The grief-stricken weaver is complicated, and the ending — learning to mend without making ghosts — felt emotionally honest. Minor quibble: I wanted a bit more on how the voice-tins work (a practical curiosity), but honestly that vagueness keeps the atmosphere intact. Very satisfying.
I was entirely pulled into Lornhaven from the first paragraph — the city that "held its breath" is a line I'll be thinking about for a while. The worldbuilding is so tactile: Edda feeling sound as pressure, the kilns smelling of "old sugar and iron," and Marius's dented tin labeled A SECOND CHIME (such a small, haunting detail). The scene where Edda times the bell with her pulse and shapes a pane to hold a whisper gave me chills. The woven shard and the rescue of stolen voices is a gorgeous, eerie premise, and the final lessons about mending without making ghosts felt compassionate rather than sentimental. This is dark fantasy that trusts silence as much as speech — beautiful prose, layered characters, and a melancholy that never tips into melodrama. Loved it.
This was one of those reads that sneaks up on you: starts as a craft piece about glassblowing and turns into an interrogation of grief and responsibility. Edda's skill — reading sound like clay — is such a clever conceit; the passage where she answers the bell's tremor with her own breath was vivid in an almost musical way. I appreciated how the narrative balances atmosphere with plot: the Lantern Parade setup, the murmurs and hollows requested by Marius, and that ache when Edda confronts the grieving weaver. The story doesn't over-explain the magic, which keeps the mystery alive. Stylistically assured, haunting, and quietly humane.
I loved how this story treats silence as a force as much as sound. The scenes of glassmaking are intimate and dangerously beautiful — the molten limb of glass, the bell's tremor traveling up bone and marrow. Edda's restraint (and her tools: lenses, needle, silence) are a lovely inversion of the usual loud-hero trope. The weaver's grief felt real, and the ending about mending without making ghosts was the kind of quiet moral I'd been hoping for. Also, tiny detail love: the label on Marius's tin made me smile and then ache. Highly recommend to anyone who likes their fantasy bittersweet.
I went in expecting moody urban fantasy and the story delivered with style. The imagery is dense without being overwrought — lines like "glass burned in their bones" and the kilns smelling of sugar and iron really set the tone. Edda's tactile reading of sound is inventive, and the Marius tin detail grounds the world emotionally. The Lantern Parade subplot gives structure and stakes. If there is any complaint, it's that I wanted a longer dive into the weaver's backstory; their grief is hinted at brilliantly but felt a little compressed. Still, a memorable read.