The Faded Root
The wool of the greatcoat had long since lost its rigidity, softening into a dense, matted fur that clung to Elias Thorne’s frame like a second skin, heavier than the iron of his medals and infinitely more suffocating. It was a garment of the old world, a relic from a time when the rain in the Scottish Highlands was merely weather and not a verdict, and it smelled now of wet stone, woodsmoke,...
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