The Faded Root
The rain did not fall so much as it was exhaled by the grey, bruised sky, a thick, viscous curtain that erased the boundary between the cobblestones of the village square and the wet, weeping air, and within this suffocating dampness, Elias Thorne stood with his hands buried in the soil of a pot that contained nothing but a fragment of a root, a pale, trembling thing that looked less like a...
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