The Faded Root
Act I "You are late for the execution, Warden Lund." The magistrate’s voice was dry, like the sound of a branch snapping under a heavy boot. Erik Lund stood in the mud of the border checkpoint, the year 1347 pressing down on his shoulders like a physical weight. He was thirty-two, a border warden with a back that ached in the damp, and his primary want was simple: the payment of his wife’s...
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