The Pale Garden
The shears sat heavy in Elias Thorne’s hands, their blades slick with a greenish, viscous fluid that smelled sharply of iron. He stood in the center of the garden, the overgrown boundary hedge towering above him like a wall of dark, breathing fur. The year was indeterminate, a blur of gray skies and damp earth, but the solstice was three days away, and the hedge had grown another foot...
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