The Faded Ruin
The parchment lay upon the stone table, its edges curled from the humidity of the cellar, bearing the seal of the Royal Apothecary and a list of reagents that read like a death sentence: three ounces of cinnabar, two drams of quicksilver, a vial of distilled sulfur, and the bone ash of a raven, ground fine as dust. I signed the inventory with a hand that did not tremble, though my fingers felt...
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