The Faded Shield
The ferns in the atrium of the Bureau had grown thick and dark, their fronds unfurling in a slow, deliberate spiral that mirrored the curvature of the human spine, a botanical echo of the very beings who tended them with such sterile, bureaucratic precision. Elias Thorne stood before the central pool, his reflection fractured into a dozen trembling shards by the ripples of the water, each shard...
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