The Faded Root
The banquet hall did not exist in any map, yet it felt more solid than the floorboards of the house he had just left, a place where the air tasted of copper and old dust and the silence was so heavy it pressed against his eardrums like deep water. He stood there, holding a glass of wine that was red not from grape but from the blood of a tree that had been cut down in a storm three centuries...
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