The Distant Metropolis

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2026-08-23 00:59:47 -

Your fingers are stained black to the first knuckle, the sap of the nightshade clinging to the skin like wet ash, and you are scrubbing them against the rough wool of your sleeve as the damp air of the infirmary settles into your lungs. The stone walls of the fortress weep with condensation, a cold that seeps through the floorboards and into the marrow, but the vial in your other hand is warm,...

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