The Distant Threshold
The air in the apothecary’s chamber tasted of sulfur and damp wool, a scent that had long since seeped into Margaret’s pores, marking her as one who dealt in the raw, unrefined edges of nature. She stood before the copper still, her hands trembling not from the heat of the fire beneath it, but from the sheer, crushing weight of the silence that had fallen after the High Chancellor’s final word....
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