The Faded Root
The letter lay on the workbench, its seal broken, the ink still wet in the cold air of the workshop. You knew before you read the words that the Council had misinterpreted your silence as sabotage, a bureaucratic error that would cost you everything. The Grand Meridian Clock sat in the center of the room, its brass face already fading to the color of ash, a physical manifestation of the despair...
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