The Faded Root
The bellows of the old church hall groaned in the drafty wind, a sound that Elara Vane had come to associate with the slow, grinding exhalation of a dying god, and she sat alone at the long, scarred oak table, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea that had long since gone cold, watching the dust motes dance in the single shaft of light that pierced the boarded-up window like a pale, accusing...
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