The Golden Greenhouse
The frost had taken the glasshouse by mid-morning. It was not a gentle white dust, but a sharp, crystalline web that spun across the panes, turning the summer heat into a cold, trapped breath. Elara stood before the shattered door, her hands wrapped in wool that smelled of woodsmoke and old damp. She was a stranger in her own home, though she had lived in the shadow of the palace for thirty...
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