The Golden Maze
The mortar was stone, worn smooth by twenty years of use, and the pestle was a shard of flint that had once been part of a sword. Elias Thorne ground the dried roots of the valerian, mixing them with the powdered bark of the willow and a pinch of sulfur. The smell was sharp, acrid, and familiar. It was the scent of survival. Outside the tent, the wind howled across the frozen moor, a sound that...
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