The Faded Root
The clock in the Grand Atrium did not tick. It hummed. A low, industrial drone that vibrated in the teeth of anyone who stood too close to the brass columns. Elias Thorne stood close. He stood close to the silence. He was a man of ink and bone, his spine curved like a question mark. For thirty years, he had cataloged the empire’s memory. He was the Archivist of the High Court, a title that...
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