The Faded Root
The mist in the valley of Oakhaven does not lift; it merely thins, revealing the gray stone of the old temple ruins that jut out from the hillside like broken teeth, and I stand before the gate with my iron knife sharpened against the whetstone until the blade sings a high, thin note that vibrates in my own skull. I am thirty years old, and my hands are stained with the indigo dye of the loom,...
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