The Golden Greenhouse
The gavel struck the wood, and the sound was not a crack but a dull, wet thud, like a ripe plum dropped onto stone. You sat in the center of the chamber, the air thick with the smell of old beeswax and the metallic tang of anxiety. Around you, the judges sat in a semicircle of high-backed chairs, their faces arranged in masks of professional indifference. You were the Clerk of the Third...
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