The Faded Root
The ink in my journal is not ink, but a dark sap that dries to a brittle, amber shell, and the date I scrawl at the top of the page, October 14th, feels less like a marker of time and more like a coordinate in a map that is slowly dissolving. I am Elara, thirty-two years old, the senior archivist of the Guild of Oros, and I want nothing more than to secure my position by cataloging the Faded...
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