The Amber Reversal
The Amber Reversal The opium smoke still clung to Arthur Blackwood's coat when he opened his eyes to a ceiling he had not seen in ten years. White plaster, ornate cornice, the faint scent of lavender. He sat bolt upright, his heart hammering against ribs that felt too young, too unscarred. The hands gripping the sheets were smooth, uncalloused, the hands of an eighteen-year-old boy. Ten years...
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