The Wistful Petal
The ledger had four hundred and twelve entries, each inked in a blue so faint it seemed to dissolve in the dry air of the throne room. Elias Thorne counted them aloud, his voice flat and dry, a sound like paper tearing. He was a court apothecary, a man of roots and resins, of distillations and precise measurements. He had brewed the orchid extract for six weeks, sleeping in the cellar, eating...
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