The Faded Ruin
The oak tree stood at the center of the courtyard, its roots splitting the stone foundation of the Inquisition House. It was ancient. It was unmoving. It did not care about the men who walked beneath its branches. It did not care about the blood that soaked into the earth around its base. Thomas Bradshaw stood at the root line. His hands were stained with ink and dirt. He was the Archivist. He...
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