The Faded Root
The ink did not dry so much as it bled, a slow hemorrhage of violet and black that seeped into the grain of the parchment until the letters themselves seemed to possess a weight, a density that defied the flat, brittle nature of the page. Elias Thorne sat in the high-backed chair in the center of the Archive, a room that existed in a liminal space between the present moment and the memory of...
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