The Golden Greenhouse
The dream begins not with light but with the sound of glass singing, a high, thin note that pierces the velvet silence of the chapel where you kneel, your knees aching against the cold stone floor until the pain becomes a dull, distant hum that fades into the background of your existence. You are in the court of the Count, a man whose face is a blur of pale flesh and sharp angles, a figure who...
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