The Distant Crown
The air in the glasshouse was thick with the scent of crushed petals and iron, a cloying sweetness that coated the back of my throat as the harvest festival reached its crescendo. I stood in the shadows of the ferns, my hands trembling not from the cold, but from the rhythmic, mechanical throb I felt vibrating through the floorboards, a pulse that defied every botanical classification I had...
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