The Faded Root
The champagne in my glass had gone flat, a dull, golden sludge that tasted of the expensive perfume clinging to the Chancellor’s lapel, yet I stood in the gilded rotunda of the Ministry, holding the final draft of my thesis on the "Faded Root," feeling a cold prickle of doubt that had nothing to do with the alcohol. The room hummed with the low, satisfied murmur of approval, a sound like bees...
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