The Golden Greenhouse
The silk sash had been red once, a color so vibrant it seemed to bleed into the dim light of the archives, but now it was the dull, bruised purple of old wine, its threads frayed like the nerves of a man who has been shouting into the void for too long. Elias Thorne stood before the mahogany desk of the High Inquisitor, a figure whose power was less a weight and more a suffocating humidity,...
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