The Wistful Petal

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2026-08-18 12:16:46 -

The Wistful Petal

The mud was thick, a black slurry that smelled of iron and rot, and it clung to my boots with a suction that felt personal, almost hungry. I was knee-deep in the bog, my rifle raised, the barrel slick with condensation that wasn’t rain. The forest around me was not a forest in any way I had been trained to understand it. The trees were too tall, their branches woven together so tightly that the...

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