The Golden Greenhouse
The ink on the pension form was still wet when Elias Thorne felt the first snag in his boot. He was fifty-two, a veteran of the City Watch, and he wanted to secure his pension before the winter solstice, but the cobblestones of the High Street seemed to have grown teeth. He pulled his left foot forward, and the leather sole scraped with a sound like a fingernail on slate. It was not the stone...
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