The Wistful Saga
The bottle was heavy, heavier than the glass should have been for its size. Elias Thorne held it up to the window where the fog pressed against the glass like a damp cloth, and he watched the liquid inside swirl, a thick, amber sludge that refused to settle. "You look like a man who hasn't slept in a week," Silas said from the chair by the hearth. The old apothecary’s voice was thin, stripped...
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