The Pale Shadows
You stand alone in the kitchen, the air thick with the scent of crushed wormwood and damp stone. It is late, the kind of late that settles into the bones, and the only light comes from the single candle guttering in its iron holder. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, and your hands are stained green to the wrists. You grind the bitter leaves into a fine powder, the mortar singing a low,...
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