The Pale Garden
The dream was always the same, a recurring technical failure of the mind where the geometry of the room dissolved into a garden of pale, withered hands that grasped at the throat with the cold precision of iron tongs. Captain Elias Thorne woke in the damp dark of his cell, the year 1348 pressing down on him like a physical weight, his forty-five years of service to the Crown now reduced to a...
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