The Faded Root
The ink in Elias Vane’s quill had dried to a black scab, yet the parchment before him remained blank, a stark accusation in the dim, dusty silence of the scriptorium. He sat alone, the only sound the rhythmic, wet thumping of his own heart, which seemed to beat in sync with the pulsing, verdant veins that had fused into his left forearm since childhood. At forty, Elias was a scholar of the old...
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