The Distant Temple
The vial was small, no larger than a thumb, and it smelled faintly of lavender and old sweat, a scent that had clung to the lining of my wife’s sewing basket for three years. I held it up to the light of the kitchen window, the liquid inside clear and still, and I felt the familiar, cold knot of duty tighten in my stomach. My name is Elias Thorne, and for twenty years I have served as a senior...
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