The Pale Mist
Act I "You’re drinking the last of it," Elene said, her voice thin as the winter air that seeped through the shutters. "Save some for the inspection." Nune Tsiklauri did not look up from the copper still. He was forty-two, and his hands, mapped with the scars of burns and cuts, moved with the mechanical precision of a man who had spent three decades coaxing spirit from grain. The distillery sat...
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