The Faded Root
The rain had stopped, but the air still tasted of wet copper and the dry, dusty scent of old plaster, a flavor Elias Thorne had come to associate with structural failure and, increasingly, with his own father. He stood in the center of the main hall of Vane House, the Victorian estate perched on the edge of the moor like a tooth rotting in a gum, and watched the shadows in the corner lengthen...
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