The Wistful Crossroads
The air in the Ministry of Internal Order tasted of copper and stale rain, a metallic tang that coated the back of Elias Thorne’s throat as he stood before the desk of the Undersecretary, his hands trembling not from cold but from the sheer, crushing weight of the object he held, a vial of liquid so dark it seemed to absorb the gaslight around it, a substance that had been distilled from the...
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