The Faded Paradox
"You have brought an impurity into the High Hall," the Archivist said, his voice low and steady as the grinding of millstones on the ancient limestone floor, his eyes fixed not on my face but on the small, clay bowl resting in the center of the oak table between us, a bowl filled with a thick, dark paste that smelled of crushed cloves, dried blood, and the damp, rotting sweetness of overripe...
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