The Wistful Crossroads
The jar sat upon the high shelf of the pantry, a vessel of green glass that seemed to absorb the dim light of the hall rather than reflect it. Inside, suspended in a thick, amber syrup, lay the root of the Ashwood, a substance that the elders of the village had sworn would grant immortality to the one who consumed it. It was not a food, nor a medicine in the common sense, but a preservation of...
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