The Golden Greenhouse
A debt is a thing with weight, heavier than iron and colder than the sea. I have learned this in the damp, moss-eaten courtyard of the station, where the air smells of brine and the rot of the bad year, and where I, Ketil Odden, a scribe of no particular renown, stand holding a ledger that feels less like paper and more like a coffin lid. The Golden Greenhouse, as the court calls it, is not a...
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