The Pale Verdict
The glass vial was cold to the touch, its surface slick with a condensation that smelled faintly of iron and crushed violets, held between fingers that had spent the last three nights scrubbing mortar from under their nails. It sat on the workbench, a sliver of black liquid suspended in the center, refusing to settle, while the rest of the shop hummed with the low, dry friction of the bellows...
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