The Wistful Witness
I woke in the cellar, the air thick with the scent of wet earth and crushed grain. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic, arrhythmic drumming that seemed to sync with the low, subterranean hum beneath the floorboards. I am Silas Vane, a border warden in the mist-shrouded valley of Oren, and for three years I have pursued the black root that feeds our madness. The opposing force is not...
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