The Pale Bonsai
Act I What does a man owe when the ledger is written in blood? Randi Gundersen, forty-two, stood in the cramped office of the border outpost, the air thick with the damp rot of the cypress swamp outside. He held the Pale Bonsai, a twisted trunk of pale wood that felt heavier than iron, its roots coiled like veins in his palm. The Bureau’s refusal to acknowledge the artifact’s weight was a...
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