The Distant Legend
The humidity in the greenhouse was a physical weight, pressing against Elara’s temples like a damp wool blanket, and the air tasted of rotting peat and old money. She stood before the glass case, her fingers trembling not from the chill but from the effort of keeping her smile fixed in place, a mask of porcelain rigidity that her colleagues mistook for aloofness. Silas Thorne, the patriarch of...
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