The Faded Root
The ink was gone. It had not faded so much as it had been erased, the dark pigment lifting from the parchment of the warrant until the name I was supposed to hunt became a ghost, a whisper of graphite that the wind in the drafty cellar could scatter. I held the paper up to the single, trembling gaslight, my fingers stained with the rust of the iron bars I had spent three days prying at. I was...
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