The Golden Greenhouse
The feast was not for us, or perhaps it was for us in a way that tasted like ash and iron, a banquet held in the high vaulted hall of the Citadel of St. Jude where the chandeliers dripped with light that felt less like illumination and more like a physical weight pressing down on the shoulders of the guards. I stood at the periphery, my hands clasped behind my back, the leather of my gloves...
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