The Distant Joke
The vial weighed four ounces, a precise and damning weight that Elias Thorne measured against the grain of the oak table before sealing it with wax the color of dried blood. He had spent three hours preparing the liquid moon, distilling silver into a clarity that seemed to hum with a low, sub-audible frequency, a sound that only those with the alchemist’s sight could perceive. The task was...
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