The Golden Greenhouse
The sky did not fall so much as it peeled, a vast, bruised sheet of violet tearing away from the firmament to reveal the churning, starless void beneath. You stood on the ridge of the Blackmoor, the wind screaming through the hollow of your chest, holding the brass astrolabe in your gloved hands. It was cold. It was always cold in the places where the air thinned and the truth grew too heavy...
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