The Wistful Petal
The rot does not smell like decay. It smells like copper and old pennies, a metallic tang that coats the back of your throat and refuses to be washed away. You are Elias, thirty-two, a constable in the service of Lord Vane, and you have been watching the grain stores of the manor for three days without sleep. The black rot is not a fungus. It is a hunger. It eats the wheat, the barley, the rye,...
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