The Distant Nightmare

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2026-08-23 22:37:47 -

You count the grains of dried root in the palm of your left hand. One, two, three. The mortar is cold granite, worn smooth by ten years of your friction. You are Elias Vane, Royal Apothecary of Aethelgard, and you are thirty-two years old. Your father, Thomas, lies on the cot in the back room, his breathing a wet rattle that sounds like a loose hinge in a door. You need this dose. You need the...

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