The Wistful Show
The fog rolls in from the valley floor, thick and grey, tasting of iron and old rot. You stand in the center of your stone-walled hut, the air heavy with the scent of dried lavender and the metallic tang of fear. In your hand, you hold a vial of liquid so dark it looks like a bruise, the final dose of Sweetbriar you have spent three years brewing. You want to end Clara’s pain, a chronic agony...
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