The Golden Greenhouse
The sash was a strip of crimson velvet, heavy with gold thread, and it hung on the wall of Magistrate Vane’s office like a wound that refused to scab. I stood there, my hands bound behind my back by men who had once sworn to stand beside me, while Vane paced before his desk, his boots clicking a rhythmic, mocking meter on the stone floor. "You see it, Elias?" he asked, his voice smooth as oil,...
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