The Distant Metropolis
The vial was cold in Margaret Holloway’s hand, a shard of obsidian glass that felt less like a container and more like a frozen vein of the earth. She stood before the heavy oak doors of the Alchemy Tower, the air in the corridor thick with the scent of ozone and dried lavender, the last remnants of the King’s failing health. For three years, she had distilled the essence of the realm into this...
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