The Golden Greenhouse
The bell in the tower of St. Jude’s did not ring. It screamed. A high, thin shriek that tore through the foggy morning, waking the city from its slumber with a start. Silas Vance stood at the base of the spire, his boots caked in the wet soot of the street below. He was a constable of the old guard, a man built of stone and silence, whose uniform had faded to a ghostly grey. The sky above was...
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