The Faded Bouquet
Act I The ink in the bone vial had turned a shade of grey that matched the rotting wood of the archive shelf. Hai Wang wiped her hands on her apron, the fabric stiff with dried pigment, and stared at the page before her. The Book of Echoes was not meant to be read; it was meant to be feared, its script written in a script that seemed to shift when the light from the oil lamp flickered. She was...
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