The Faded Root
The ink is wet on the parchment, and you are losing, which is a fact so absolute it has the weight of a stone in the throat, and the scribes are watching you with eyes that hold the cold, detached precision of men who have decided, long before the final stroke, that you are a fool, a fraud, a man whose very breath is an insult to the sanctity of the archive, and you know, with a clarity that...
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