The Faded Root
The ink is already on your hands. It is not black, but a bruised, arterial purple that seems to pulse in time with your own heartbeat. You are Elara, thirty-two years old, and you have just crossed the threshold into the restricted wing of the Abbey of St. Jude’s, the place where the truth is supposed to be kept, but where it seems to rot. You want to clear your father’s name. He died in this...
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