The Faded Root
The train slowed. It hissed like a dying snake against the iron tracks. I stepped onto the platform. The air was thick with coal smoke and wet wool. It smelled of industry. It smelled of rot. My name is Elias Thorne. I am a constable. Or I was. Now I am just a man with a heavy coat and a lighter mind. I had come to Oakhaven. It is a small town. It sits in a valley. The mills on the river turn...
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