The Wistful Throne
The glass vial in my hand was cold, a sliver of amber liquid trembling against the weight of my own pulse. I had spent nine years in the Royal Apothecary Guild, refining compounds until my fingers bled, all for this single, impossible synthesis. The Aetheric Tonic was not merely a cure; it was a contract written in blood. To activate it, the healer had to add a drop of their own life force,...
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