The Golden Greenhouse
The parchment lay flat on the obsidian table, its surface slick with the condensation of the Aetheric Court’s eternal twilight, a document that Silas Vane, the Magistrate of the Third Circle, had spent the last three hours attempting to decipher without the aid of his tongue, which had been severed in a dream that recurred with the mechanical precision of a clockwork automaton. The paper was a...
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