The Distant Temple
The vial trembled in Elias Thorne’s fingers, a small glass cylinder filled with a powder that shimmered with the dull, oily iridescence of crushed beetle wings, and as he pressed it close to his ear, the whisper was there again, a dry, rasping exhalation that spelled out Julian’s name with a terrible, intimate familiarity. It was the year of our Lord 1342, a time when the air in the Low...
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