The Faded Root
Who drinks first when the poison is also the cure? Khalid Ghannam stood in the cellar, the damp rising through the soles of his boots to soak his ankles. The air tasted of wet stone and the sweet, rotting sugar of the walnut grove above, a smell that clung to the back of the throat. He held the root in his left hand, its skin black and slick, pulsing with a faint, cold heat that had nothing to...
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