The Wistful Ashes
The scale in the alchemist’s laboratory was not a tool of precision, but of penance, its brass beam trembling under the weight of three days’ labor and the singular, terrible hope of a father. I had spent forty hours distilling the final exhalation of King Aldric, a process that required not just mercury and sulfur, but the slow, steady bleeding of my own veins into the crucible, for the royal...
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