The Wistful Mountain
The ink does not come from the pen; it seeps from the pores of my forearms, a cold, viscous tide that darkens the skin of my wrists like bruised plums, and I am forced to look away from the stone tablet because the moment my gaze lingers on the fractured glyphs, the pain becomes a physical weight, a heavy, wet anchor dragging me down into the dust of the laboratory floor. I am Elias Thorne,...
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