The Pale Garden
The sky did not fall; it broke. It shattered like a pane of heavy glass dropped from a great height, raining down shards of violet and bruised orange that cut the air before they dissolved into a fine, choking mist. You stood in the center of the moor, your uniform soaked not by rain but by the sudden, viscous humidity of the event, the wool of your tunic clinging to your ribs like a second,...
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