The Pale Meridian
Elias Thorne’s fingers, stained with the grey dust of the carriage floor, tightened around the glass vial in his pocket. The mercury inside sloshed, a cold, liquid weight against his thigh, humming with a frequency that seemed to vibrate in his own teeth. He was forty-two, a scholar of medieval alchemy who had built his reputation on the premise that the "Pale Meridian" was not a metaphor for...
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