The Faded Root
The first page of the King’s private journal sat in my hands, the paper cool and damp against my palms. It smelled of iron filings and wet earth, a scent that clung to the air of the archive room even when the windows were shuttered tight against the November wind. I am Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, a royal archivist with twelve years of service to the Crown, and I was here to secure my...
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