The Pale Bonsai
The banquet hall of the Imperial Ministry of Botanical Standards did not smell of food, but of formaldehyde and old parchment, a sterile sweetness that hung in the air like a suspended breath, where the long mahogany table groaned under the weight of porcelain plates containing only the faint, ghostly residue of yesterday’s inspections, and where Master Elias Thorne sat at the far end, his...
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