The Distant Blade
Colette Bouchard crushed the nightshade root against the stone mortar, her wrist locking in a spasm that sent a spray of purple grit across the white tiles. The scent was sharp, chemical, cutting through the stale air of the apothecary’s back room where the twenty-three of the Old Brick kilns had once baked the clay for the palace’s finest bowls, now cold and silent. She was twelve, small for...
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