Ingmar stood at the edge of the floating island, looking
down at the brown, ruined world below. It was a cracked and broken place, sharp
contrast to the clear, bubbling springs and full, green trees bursting in the park
behind him. It was tended to by the emperor’s magician gardeners who moved
unseen along the winding paths, pruning and planting. It was commonly believed
that the plants populating the garden had been native to the part of the world
the island had originally resided in, but the surface had been devastated for
generations, so no one could say for sure.
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