The Faded Root
The silence in the valley of Oakhaven was not empty, but heavy, a physical weight that pressed against the eardrums like deep water. It was a silence woven from the threads of centuries, thick with the scent of damp earth and the faint, metallic tang of old iron. Elias Thorne sat in his workshop, a space that smelled of sawdust, linseed oil, and the peculiar, sweet decay of wood that had been...
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