The Faded Root
The ink on your hand is not blood, but it looks like it. It stains the skin of your palm, a dark, bruised purple that pulses with the rhythm of your own heartbeat. You are seven years old, and you are standing in the square of Oakhaven, a town that smells of wet wool and old fear. The year is 1340, or perhaps 1890, for time in Oakhaven has a way of bending, of folding in on itself like a letter...
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