The Pale Garden
The air in the workshop tasted of sulfur and old blood, a metallic tang that coated the back of your throat as Lord Vane’s men kicked the oak door inward. You stood before the alchemy bench, your hands trembling not from fear but from the sheer, crushing weight of the object in your palm, the Pale Garden, a crystalline shard that hummed with a cold, rhythmic light. For twenty years, you had...
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