The Faded Root
The rain did not fall so much as it was thrown, a relentless, cold spit from a sky the color of a bruised plum, hammering against the high, arched windows of the Blackfriars Penitentiary where the glass, thick and warped with age, distorted the world outside into a swirling, oily mess of grey and black. I stood in the center of the cell, a space no larger than a coffin stretched out, my hands...
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