The Wistful Throne
I The dome city of Slatina printed its streets in grey ink, a grid of labor and light that stretched from the seed-library night desk to the cooling rooms where the air tasted of ozone and dried fruit. Below the glass, the fen country lay flat and wide, a sea of reeds under a sky so vast it seemed to press against the orbital station’s hull. Slobodan Jovanovic stood at the window, his hands...
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