The Wistful Crossroads

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2026-08-19 06:07:23 -

The oak tree stood in the center of the courtyard, its roots gripping the ancient flagstones like the fingers of a drowning man. It was a great sentinel, unchanging against the shifting seasons of our reign. I had tended it for forty years. I knew the texture of its bark, the way the sap bled when the frost broke. To the court, it was merely a landmark, a place to hang proclamations or execute...

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