The Wistful Petal
The dream is always the same, a suffocating weight of velvet and iron that presses against the back of your neck before you even open your eyes in the damp straw of your scribe’s quarters, and you know with a certainty that borders on the physical that the petal is coming, that single, impossible white orchid blossom that drifts down from the high, vaulted ceiling of the Duke’s throne room to...
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