The Faded Root
You wear the shawl. It is not wool. It is not silk. It is the shed skin of a century, woven tight against your shoulders. You are the Weaver. No, that is too simple. You are the Anomaly. In the Court of White Stone, they call you the Shadow in the Hall. You do not speak. You do not blink. You stand by the window where the light breaks against the glass and shatters into a thousand cold shards....
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