Chapter 18 Sitting On My Lap

Azrael

The tea tasted vile.

The moment the steaming liquid hit my tongue, the unmistakable, chalky bitterness of Frost-Loom Resin coated the back of my throat. 

It was a potent, paralyzing agent harvested from the frozen northern ridges—a plant juice meant to lock up muscles and freeze a mortal’s...

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