The Pale Fracture
The orchid sat in the crook of Elias Vane’s elbow, its pale, fractured petals trembling against the wool of his sleeve, a small, defiant anomaly in the damp, iron-scented air of the settlement’s industrial corridor. He was thirty-two years old, a former botanist whose hands had once known the delicate architecture of ferns but now bore only the calluses and chemical burns of a laborer, and he...
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