The Wistful Atlas
The dream was always the same: a black liquid, viscous and cold, tasting of iron and the specific, metallic regret of a decision made too late. Elias Thorne woke with his mouth full of that phantom flavor, the taste clinging to the back of his throat like a bruise. He was forty years old, the Royal Alchemist to the Pale King, and his hands were already trembling before his feet touched the...
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