The Faded Root
The mirror was cracked. Not broken. Cracked. A single fracture ran from the upper left corner down to the center. It looked like a vein. Or a river on a map of a place I had never seen. I was seven. I stood in the high tower of Ashworth Keep. The stone was cold. It bit into my palms. My father was below. He was reading. He did not look up. He never looked up when I came to the tower. He said...
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