The Distant Blade
The apothecary’s shop smelled of dried lavender and rotting wood, a scent that had seeped into the very grain of the shelves until it was indistinguishable from the air itself. Elias Thorne stood behind the counter, his hands hovering over a mortar and pestle, the stone worn smooth by a century of grinding. He was a man who had spent his life translating the language of the earth into the...
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