The Pale Garden
I wake in the throes of a fever that smells of lavender and rotting orchids, my fingers tangled in the silk sheets of the infirmary at the Palace of the White Sun, a place that exists in the misty, timeless interstices of our empire where the laws of physics bow to the whims of the sovereign. The air is thick, heavy with the cloying scent of medicinal sage and the metallic tang of old blood,...
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