The Pale Bonsai
The first branch had been pruned at dawn, the second at noon, and the third was waiting for the light to shift, a task measured in the slow, heavy ticks of the obsidian clock that hung from the courtyard wall. Sergeant Elias Thorne stood in the center of the Imperial Arboretum, his hand gripping the trunk of the pale bonsai until his knuckles whitened, feeling the cold, dry pulse of the wood...
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