*It began with a broken vial and a question Elian should never have asked.
“Can you make someone love you?”
The question lingered in the stale air of the workshop, soaked in the scent of burnt rosemary and iron. Glass shards glittered on the floor like ice in blood, and the remains of a failed potion hissed against the stone.
Master Thorne didn’t look up. His ink-stained fingers traced a sigil onto a yellowed page, steady as always. “No,” he said, voice rough with age and secrets.*
Comments
0No comments yet.