The Distant Wound
The three drops fell into the glass vial with the weight of small, cold stones, each one suspending in the amber liquid before dissolving into a darker, more viscous swirl. Elias Thorne watched the suspension settle, his fingers trembling not from the chill of the cellar but from the sheer, physical heaviness of the act. He was counting the seconds, a ritual as precise as a surgeon’s incision,...
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