The Golden Greenhouse
The air in the Hall of Echoes tastes of copper and old rain, a metallic tang that coats the back of your throat as you press your palm against the cold, weeping stone of the pillar, feeling the vibrations of the war drums thrumming through your very bones. You are the Warden of the Green Glass, a title that once meant steward of the sacred orchids, but now, under the weight of the High...
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