The blue glow came first.
Edgar Moriarty stared at his hands as the transmutation fluid seeped through the cracks in his gloves, burning tiny holes in his skin. The laboratory beneath the Thames smelled of sulfur and old water, the walls weeping condensation in the damp London night. On the stone table before him lay two open books: a seventeenth-century alchemical manuscript bound in cracked leather, and a treatise on...
0 Reacties 0 aandelen 5 Views 0 voorbeeld