The Distant Garden

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2026-08-18 03:16:40 -

The wind smelled of wet iron and old blood. I stood at the gate of the manor, my hand resting on the cold iron latch. Behind me, the village slept in a silence so thick it felt like wool. I was leaving. I had to. The order had come down, not from the King, but from the soil itself. A command written in the rotting roots of the oak tree that stood in the center of the yard. I had seen the words....

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