The Faded Root
You stand in the wet, gray sump of the industrial district where the air tastes of rust and wet ash and your boots sink into the sludge with a sound that is too much like the tearing of old skin. It is not a ghost town, not anymore, but the city has grown so thick with the weight of its own bureaucracy that the streets feel like the inside of a sealed gut, a place where time does not pass but...
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