The Faded Root
The sky above the office was not a sky, but a bruised membrane of violet light that pulsed with the slow, rhythmic throb of a dying heart. Elias Thorne sat at his desk, the surface of which was made not of mahogany but of compressed, gray bone, and he was in the midst of a battle that required no swords, only the relentless, grinding force of seconds accumulating against the marrow of his...
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