The Distant Clue
Elias Thorne’s hands shook as he lifted the iron latch. The door groaned, a sound like a dying ox, and he stepped into the dark. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of wet stone and lavender, a cloying perfume that clung to the back of his throat. He had come for the *Herba Vitae*, the pale root that grew only where a soul had been willingly surrendered. The Inquisitor’s report was clear:...
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