The Distant Garden

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2026-08-24 15:09:09 -

The feast hall smelled of roasted pork and wet wool. It was a thick, cloying scent that hung in the air like a fog, settling in my throat as I stood before the table. The Magistrate, a man named Ashworth with a face like dried leather, sat at the head of the long oak bench. He did not look at me. He looked at the crowd. The villagers of Oakhaven were there, their faces pale and bright with the...

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