The Faded Root
The chandelier above you is a constellation of cut crystal and cold gold, refracting the light of the banquet into a thousand sharp, accusing shards that dance across the polished marble floor of the Ministry’s central hall. You are Major Elias Thorne, forty years old, and your left hand, the one resting on the edge of the mahogany table, is no longer entirely your own; the skin has split,...
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