The Pale Bonsai
The ink in the pot was cold and thick, like dried blood, and Elias Thorne’s hand trembled as he formed the date: the fourteenth of November, in the year of our Lord 1342. He stood before the High Council, the wooden floorboards groaning under the weight of his boots, while the air in the chamber smelled of wet wool and the sharp, metallic tang of the Pale Bonsai’s roots, which pulsed with a...
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