The Pale Bridge
The dream began not with sound, but with the taste of iron and crushed violets, a metallic sweetness that coated the back of Elias Thorne’s tongue like a varnish, thick and unyielding in the silence of the stone cellar where he had been imprisoned for three days by the Magistrate’s men, who had mistaken his quiet, deliberate study of the alchemical properties of the local flora for the...
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