The Faded Root
The dream is not a dream but a waking held in suspension, a thick amber resin trapping a fly that will never decompose, and you are standing in the center of the Great Hall where the stone floor is cold against your bare feet and the air tastes of iron and old paper, and you are looking at the tree. It is an oak, impossibly large, its roots spreading across the marble like the veins of a giant...
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