The Wistful Show
Ramon Herrera Act I The wind off the plateau did not blow so much as it scraped, a constant, dry friction against the stone walls of the fortress colony, carrying with it the smell of salt and rot that meant the river was rising again. I held the vial in my left hand, the glass cold and slick, feeling the slight vibration of the tincture inside, a liquid that cost more than my entire annual...
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