The Faded Root
Thorne. The name was spat through the intercom like a piece of gravel, harsh and grinding against the static. You stood at the rusted gate of the decommissioned Sector 4 facility, the wind howling through the skeletal remains of the watchtower, a sound that was less a warning and more a mechanical exhale, the building itself sighing under the weight of its own obsolescence. You held the worn...
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