The Pale Path
The vial is empty, you say, and I hear the glass clink against the stone table, a small, sharp sound that cuts through the heavy silence of the alchemist’s study. Silas does not look up from his work. He is grinding a root that smells of wet earth and old iron, the mortar moving in slow, rhythmic circles that shake the dust from the rafters. You are standing in the doorway, your hands still...
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