I dreamed of roots. Thick, pale things. They dug into the dark earth. They pulled. I woke with dirt under my nails. The air smelled of rot. And ambition.
I am Silas Vane. I make chairs. Good chairs. The wood sings when I plane it. The joints fit like teeth in a jaw. I am the best in the city. They say so. I do not care what they say. I care that the wood holds.
The King came to my shop. A tall...
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