The Wistful Crossroads
The feast in the Guild Hall of St. Jude was a monument to order, a symphony of polished pewter and roasted swan that Elias had curated with the precision of a master clockmaker. He stood at the head of the long oak table, his hands steady as he poured the deep red wine into the goblets of the twelve senior apothecaries, though beneath the skin of his forearms, a tremor like the buzzing of a...
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