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Twelve wives.
One man.
One goddess.
And one final surrender.
The garden exhaled as they entered.
It wasn’t like the forest above - this wasn’t wild. It was cultivated. Sacred. The trees were taller, impossibly tall, their trunks black and glistening with veins of amber light. Their roots curled in elegant spirals that framed the ground like a woven rug. Thick vines dripped from their branches, beaded with golden sap. Everything here shimmered, not w ...
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