The Golden Crossing
The thistle was still there. It grew from the crack in the obsidian floor. One stem. One flower. Violet and gold. It had not been there yesterday. You knew this because you had swept the chamber at dawn. You had scraped the black stone until it sang under your broom. Now, the plant stood defiant. A small, organic rebellion against the geometry of the throne room. You looked at it. You looked at...
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