The Pale Garden
Chapter One Conceicao Oliveira remembered the cold before he remembered the hunger. It was a damp, physical weight that settled in the joints, the kind of chill that dusted the skin with a fine, gritty layer of ash from the burning coals. He stood in the rotting kitchen of the caravanserai, the air heavy with mildew and old sweat, and watched the last of the pale medicinal root scatter across...
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