The Faded Root
Thorne. The Magistrate’s voice is a dry rasp, like sandpaper dragged over the grain of a cheap pine desk, and it cuts through the stale, tobacco-thick air of the office with the precision of a blade. You stand in the center of the room, your hands clasped behind your back, feeling the rough cotton of your tunic chafe against your wrists, while the man behind the mahogany barrier adjusts his...
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