The Wistful Cipher
The glass vial was cold against Elias Thorne’s palm, a small, heavy thing that smelled of bitter almonds and old pennies. He held it up to the grey light of the Blackwood Range pass, watching the amber liquid catch the snowfall, and for a moment he forgot the wind. It was a tincture of his own making, the Wistful Cipher, a remedy that could pull a man back from the edge of madness but charged a...
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