The Faded Ruin
"You could have told me, Elias. You could have saved yourself the trouble of pretending to be a martyr while you were slowly turning into a wall." I looked at my hands, resting on the edge of the oak desk, and tried to remember the last time they had felt warm. The skin was tight, dry, and flaking, like the plaster we had been scraping from the west wing for the better part of the week. I was...
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