The Distant Metropolis
The hand of Oswald Fairweather, thirty-two years old and stained the permanent yellow of turmeric and tincture, moved with a mechanical precision that belied the tremor in his fingers as he measured the last drop of the White Silence into the glass vial. He stood in the cellar of the apothecary in Aethelgard, a village suspended in a timeless mist that clung to the stone walls like a damp wool...
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