The Faded Root
The crate sat on the cold stone table, its lid propped open by a splinter of oak, and the smell of damp earth and crushed pine needles hit you before the light did. You were thirty years old, a Warden of the Obsidian Spire, and in your hands you held a vial of "Roots of Silence," a narcotic herb that the High Inquisitor claimed could bypass the mental fortitude of even the most hardened...
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