The Faded Root

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2026-08-22 15:35:28 -

The Faded Root

The air in the High Chancellor’s antechamber smelled of lavender and rot. Silas stood before the desk, his uniform patched at the elbows, his spine rigid as a rifle barrel. He did not look at the scribes; he looked at the seal on the ledger before him. The parchment was thick, cream-colored, and heavy with the weight of stolen years. "Your pension," the scribe said, not looking up. "It is...

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