The Faded Root
The bell rang. It was not a chime. It was a scream of iron tearing through the night air. You stood in the center of the hall, your hands shaking. The dust motes danced in the beam of the single lantern. You held the box. It was small. Oak. Bound in iron. It sat in your palms like a sleeping bird. Your father’s hands had held it before you. They were cold now. They had been cold for three...
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