The Wistful Saga
The mortar was heavy, a thick stone beast that Arthur Vane had worn smooth over fourteen years of grinding willow bark. He moved the pestle in a slow, circular rhythm, the sound a dull, rhythmic thud that seemed to synchronize with the throbbing behind his eyes, a pain that had become as familiar and constant as his own heartbeat. The air in the shop was thick with the scent of dried herbs and...
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