The Faded Root
The root had been in the cellar for three days, and it had not moved. It lay on the stone floor, curled like a sleeping infant, its bark pale and dry, smelling faintly of earth and old iron. Elias Vane stood over it, his breath fogging in the cold air of the basement, watching the stillness with a patience that bordered on obsession. He was a man who dealt in things that did not speak, who...
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