The Distant Temple
The salt was there again. Elias Thorne stared at the bottom of his teacup, where the white crystals had settled in a tight, jagged cluster, tasting of iron and old pennies. He had been dreaming of the temple, that impossible structure of compressed brine rising from a black, featureless sea, its walls inscribed with a script that hurt the eyes to trace. He rubbed his throat, which felt raw, as...
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