The Pale Bonsai
The dampness in the cellar of Master Thorne’s workshop was not merely a physical condition but a living thing that seeped into your bones, a cold that gnawed at the marrow of your twelve-year-old frame while you crouched before the Pale Bonsai, its leaves a translucent, sickly white that seemed to glow with a faint, internal malice. You, Elias, had come to Oakhaven with a single, burning...
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