The Distant Garden

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2026-08-20 10:24:33 -

The iron bars of the window were slick with rain, and my hands, stained with the black dust of the forge, gripped them until the knuckles turned the color of old bone. I was not supposed to be here. I was not supposed to be anywhere near the High Tower, that hollow throat of stone that swallowed the sky and spat out decrees. But the smell of my father’s blood, a copper tang that had coated the...

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