The Pale Bonsai
The question of whether a man can save what he has broken remains, for now, a matter of root and rot. Elias Thorne stood in the center of the cottage, the air thick with the smell of damp wool and the metallic tang of old blood, watching the floorboards beneath his feet warp and split. He was thirty-two, an inquisitor by title and by trade, a man who had spent a decade cataloguing the heresies...
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