The Faded Root
"You bleed for the Crown, or you bleed for the debt. Choose." The Head Guard’s voice was dry as parchment, a sound that scraped against the damp cold of the antechamber. You looked down at your palm, where the knife had already drawn a thin, red line. The blood welled, hot and thick, dripping onto the flagstones with a wet, rhythmic tick that seemed to echo in the hollow silence of the...
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