The Pale Letter
The taste of iron filled my mouth before I even opened my eyes. It was a thick, cold sludge, the color of dried blood and the weight of old coins. I woke in the heath, the mist clinging to the wool of my cloak like a living thing, and I knew with a certainty that defied logic that I was no longer just Thomas Ashworth, the village alchemist. I was the recipe itself. The ingredients were my...
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