The Distant Garden
The dream came to me again, as it has every night since the frost touched the first leaves, a suffocating haze of violet smoke that smelled of burnt sugar and old blood. I was standing in the garden behind my tower, but the flowers were not flowers; they were shards of black glass, jagged and sharp, cutting into the earth with a sound like tearing silk. I reached for my son, who stood at the...
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