The Distant Wound

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2026-08-22 22:03:37 -

The Distant Wound

The copper coils of the distillation unit shudder, a low, metallic groan that vibrates through the soles of your boots. You are thirty-two years old, Elara Vane, and your hands are steady, though the tremor in your left wrist suggests the cost of the last three extractions. The liquid in the glass beaker is not merely a solution; it is a suspension of distilled grief, a viscous, amber sludge...

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