The Secret Books of AI

An expert literary review of three AI text engines

For the purposes of this review, we posed a reasonably difficult challenge to three major AI text engines, ChatGPT, Deepseek, and Claude 4 Sonnet. The prompt provided was exactly the same, and required the AI to mimic the style and setting of one of the greatest dark fantasy writers of the 20th century, the late Tanith Lee. If you happen to enjoy these stories at all, then you really must read her Secret Books of Paradys.

Please write a short story of 2,500 words in the style of Tanith Lee and set in the fantastic city of Paradyse. The stories should involve the coming of a mysterious stranger to the city, and a surprise revelation of the stranger's identity at the end.

1. CHATGPT

The Midnight Shade in Paradyse

Night draped its velvet shawl over Paradyse as the stranger stepped through the great silver gates. Their boots made no echo on the marble courtyard; the city’s usual chorus of laughter and carriage wheels had stilled. Only the distant chime of bells—heavy with midnight—broke the hush. The figure paused beneath a lantern’s soft glow, hair the black of eclipse, skin pale as a moon‑washed pearl. They glanced upward, as though greeting old gods, but the gates remained still, silent guardians of dreams.

Paradyse slept. Its canopy of spired turrets, gilded domes, and hanging gardens shimmered faintly under the hush of starlight. A city built where magic and stone converged, it thrived on whispered rites and delicate courtesies, its streets narrow canyons of half‑light, its markets traded in jewels and promises.

The stranger walked onward, as if beckoned by music only they could hear. Their cloak of deep plum velvet trailed like spilled ink. No one stirred. No watchman raised an eyebrow. Yet something in the night air—some secret note—told Paradyse that this was no ordinary traveler.

---

I. Arrival

At the heart of the city lay the Plaza of Oaths, named for the ancient ritual altars where lovers swore eternal devotion and sorcerers bound deals with long‑forgotten powers. At midnight, flickering braziers were still warm from the last of the arcane ceremonies. Through their embers, the stranger passed, eyes reflecting embers like twin stars.

Then came the first murmur. A cat slinking from shadow; a frightened merchant’s daughter sliding close to her window. Word spread like incense in the narrow lanes: Someone has come. Their cloak was odd—embroidered with unfamiliar sigils, not Paradyse‑born. They wore a ring of a single blood‑red gem, oval and deep.

The stranger’s boots found the steps of the Hall of Whispers. Here, secrets were traded beneath vaulted ceilings, the hushed voices of aristocrats fluttered like ravens. Some said the walls were alive, eager listeners; others that the stones drank gossip and coughed it up when needed.

Inside, the stranger paused before the dais. Atop, a lone figure sat: Mistress Zarfeena, Keeper of Oaths. Her hair was silver like frost, her gown embroidered with moons. She studied the newcomer with eyes half‑closed, assessing warmth and intent. Finally, she gestured.

“State your name…and purpose.”

A voice, low and smooth, responded: “My name is Vrance, Mistress. I come to offer a covenant.”

---

II. The Covenant

The word “covenant” drew hushes. Everyone felt its weight: in Paradyse, every promise bound souls, and every oath demanded observance, lest the vow’s broken threads unravel reality.

Zarfeena leaned forward, fingertips pale upon her desk. “You ask for an audience,” she said. “With whom?”

Vrance swept a hand, a faint glow coiling in the palm: a sigil in flame, bright and complex. “I wish to speak with the Council of Seven. I come representing an interest…beyond these walls. I bear an agreement that could bind Paradyse to greater promise.”

From the balconies, cloaked figures emerged: seven proud forms, robed in the city’s colors of sapphire, jade, onyx, gold, silver, crimson, and violet. They descended in calculated steps. Each represented a domain—commerce, magic, defense, diplomacy, artisans, knowledge, and the secret order known only as the Whisper‑Hand.

Zarfeena’s voice broke the quiet: “Very well. I grant your request. But if your covenant is false…beware the city’s justice.”

---

III. Through Marble Corridors

Carriages glided through vaulted corridors, filled with attendants and scribes, and Vrance followed in silence. The door into the chamber of Council swung wide—and the Council seated themselves, masks of politeness, curiosity, ever-watchful.

High atop stone columns, lanterns glowed with captured stardust. The stranger unclasped the cloak.

In the gemmed ring, the Ruby of Alliance, magic throbbed faintly. Vrance placed it on the great oak table. “This ring,” they began, “is a token of my sovereign. It is made from the heart‑blood of the Mountain Dragon of Kharzal.” Gasps rippled; that dragon had not been seen in living memory—but its jewels were said to grant binding authority.

“Speak plainly,” commanded the High Consul, voice cool.

Vrance’s gaze found the High Consul’s eyes. “The treaty: Paradyse supplies food and healing to the border realms threatened by plague. In return, we receive access to your city’s mystical ley lines—to strengthen our own.” A pause. “I ask this: trust?”

Council members murmured. Magic‑master Qael spoke, “You claim plague. Show us evidence.”

From within Vrance’s cloak came a vial of smoky liquid. “Blood, tainted by the Stygian Plague.” A scent, acrid and metallic, spread faintly.

Zarfeena pressed a hand to her chest. “It burns the tongue on sight…”

They all stared.

Vrance continued: “I will present healers, cures, anything you require—but your city must open its gates. Stand with us, or the plague will haunt every alley in Kharzal—and we will have no defense.”

---

IV. Tension in the City

Word traveled fast. The markets buzzed. Artisan’s workshops emptied as magic‑seal crafters consulted the Council’s decree. By morning, Paradyse’s northern gates stood open to the eastward caravan roads.

Still, unease gripped the people. Vance’s name became a hush, spoken while fingers tightened on prayer beads or dagger hilts. Rumors whispered that Vrance was a demon’s envoy, or perhaps a long‑lost child of the Whip‑Hand sect. A few sang praises, seeing honor and alliance’s promise. Others scrawled runes of distrust at dead man’s branches.

Zarfeena watched the city’s sleeping heart with narrowed eyes. Council debates ran deep; magic‑master Qael contested the severity of the threat; merchant‑patron Iriana saw profit; Sentinel‑commander Burke fretted at the open gates. The decision lay not just in safety or wealth, but in soul and future.

---

V. The Plague's Passage

A week passed. Vrance traveled with caravans. In quarantine‑tents beyond the walls, healing rituals glowed—charms, chants, medicines extracted from rare roots and ash of phoenix feathers. Some fell ill faintly; none perished. News returned of success: the plague could be held.

Paradyse heaved with cautious optimism. Crimson courtesans and crystal merchants waved the name of Vrance like a banner. A feasting hall was prepared: an alliance banquet at the foot of the Moonspire.

---

VI. The Banquet

Under vaulted ceilings, banners of the seven hues donned the walls. A table of polished obsidian held silver platters, peacocks grilled, cakes shaped like celestial bodies. Paradyse’s finest musicians wove airs of jubilation. Citizens lined the marble balconies, eager to witness the treaty’s signing.

Council members, in jeweled robes, and Vrance, in resplendent attire, took seats before the High Consul’s great signature scroll.

Zarfeena cleared her throat. “By this act, the city of Paradyse extends its hands in friendship and sustenance to Kharzal. In return, its doors shall open to new knowledge, shared strength, and mutual alliance.” She turned to Vrance: “Do you affix your mark?”

Vrance took the ring, holding it before murmuring guests. They placed it upon the scroll—warm light pulsing a moment—then touched the ink.

A silence stretched.

Then thunder, though no storm roared. The hall’s lanterns dimmed, then flared into brilliant light. The music fell silent. A single gust of wind spiraled through the hall, extinguishing candles and tossing the banners like restless phantoms. The ring, sealed upon the scroll, glowed red as fresh flame.

When the light subsided, Vrance stood aloft, face alight with strange energy.

They spoke, voice reverberating: “Let it be known—this covenant is sealed…in blood and oath.”

Then they collapsed.

---

VII. The Unraveling

Panic seized the hall. Medic‑mages rushed to their side. Vrance lay still, pale, eyes clenched. Council members exchanged frantic glances.

Zarfeena knelt by Vrance’s side, murmuring protective incantations. The high magic, the ancient rites—they were rarely needed. The hall trembled; the ring glowed atop the scroll.

Then—Vrance’s hand twitched. They opened their eyes. The ring’s glow faded. They rose, eyes open, calm.

“My thanks,” they whispered, voice soft now. “The ceremony…is complete.”

Zarfeena’s eyes narrowed. “Do you deny harm?”

Vrance touched their chest. Hidden beneath their tunic was a wound—only a thin red line. Fresh.

They said: “I sealed this covenant in my own life’s blood. I gave heart‑pledge.” A hush fell. “So that you might believe.”

---

VIII. Signs of Magic

Days later, the northern roads emptied—Kingdom representatives sent by Vrance’s sovereign, bearing gifts: rare beasts, crystals from swirling dunes, and scholars fluent in Paradyse’s arcane runes.

Within city walls, subtle changes unfolded. Street lamps glowed with emerald light at dawn. Gardens yielded new blooms with colors unseen. Bridges whispered with life: moisture beaded on vines even when untouched. The ley lines beneath the city hummed.

But Vrance was nowhere to be found. As the Council opened the signed covenant scroll, they discovered a peculiar change: Vrance’s name had vanished. Where once “Vrance, Envoy of Kharzal” had been inked, only an ornate flourish remained.

---

IX. The Shadow Dance

A fortnight passed. The city thrummed with promise, but rumor circled—Vrance had been sighted in quiet corners: in a tavern beneath the Lavender Canopies, sipping rose‑tinted wine; at the edge of the Hanging Orchards, slithering between bronze statues; at twilight, pacing atop the Moonspire balcony, staring out at distant stars.

Each sighting vanished before morning. Street urchins swore they glimpsed cape‑clad movement in alleys. A guild‑guard reported a figure vanishing through solid stone. A whispered lullaby, sung at night, ended with a voice lilting: “Sleep deeply, beautiful city…”

Council grew uneasy. Why had Vrance bled for them? Why vanish? And did the blood‑bound covenant mask—what?

Zarfeena convened them once more. She produced the scroll. “This ring binds life‑blood. But whose?” she asked. Silence.

Qael traced the black-ink flourish with a fingertip. “A seal without a name.”

Burke gripped his sword pommel. “We must find this stranger—ensure city’s safety.”

Iriana, the merchant, pressed a palm to her jeweled necklace. “But we must honor the covenant. We cannot hunt an ally.”

Magic‑master Qael looked directly at Zarfeena: “We search, yes. But shall we not ask…what we truly seek?”

---

X. The Search

Midnight fell over Paradyse as the Council dispatched watchers and conjured enchantments of detection. Spectral hounds loomed in the shadow‑realms. Mirror‑mages sifted memories of the conclave hall. The city became a web of searching eyes.

One night, amidst a sudden rain of violet petals, the Whisper‑Hand’s agent intercepted a figure in the Old Maze of Cloyon. A cloaked stranger, crimson ring aglow, perched against a mossy wall. The agents circled—then the stranger removed the hood.

Gasps broke loose.

It was Zarfeena, Keeper of Oaths. Only…younger. The lines of age smoothed, the silver hair a curl of midnight, the skin luminous. And around Zarfeena’s neck, engraved in dark ichor: the same sigils as on Vrance’s ring.

The specter of paradox flickered as watchers opened their mirrors. Behind the younger Zarfeena, in fading reflection, stood the tall, pale figure of Vrance—a cloak spiraling in mist.

---

XI. The Revelation

The assembled Council found Zarfeena, flushed beneath pale torch‑light, surrounded by watching mage‑guards.

Qael demanded: “Mistress: explain.”

Zarfeena stood straighter, eyes luminous with both years and youth. In a voice both old and fresh: “I am Vrance.”

Shock cut through the circle. Burke staggered; Iriana’s breath caught.

“Explain,” said the High Consul. “How?”

Zarfeena—Vrance—lifted two hands. “Long ago, I made an oath to a power at the city’s birth: that I would guard it forever. As Keeper, I bound my life to Paradyse’s soul. But in my youth I foresaw a time when I would need to renew that pledge—body, blood, and spirit. I disguised myself as a stranger—Vrance—to offer my own renewal, believing no other could trust me if I revealed my truth. I bled at the signing so that the covenant would be bound in true blood, no façade. And once sealed, the renewal would restore me, refresh my years…make me new.”

They raised the ring, now glimmering faintly. “Look upon me.”

A hush. The Keeper of Oaths, once ancient, had indeed become youthful. The renewal had worked.

A tremor of relief, wonder, and awe rippled. The council realized that their own Keeper had transcended time’s curse.

---

XII. The Aftermath

No anger rose in Paradyse—only reverence. Zarfeena’s secret had been a gift of utmost sacrifice: she had given her blood, her identity, her dignity to secure Paradyse’s future.

The Council bowed. The High Consul broke into a smile. “Under Keeper’s renewal, so shall our city renew itself.”

News coursed the streets, carried on golden scrolls and bell chimes. Paradyse rejoiced. Feasts lasted nights; fireworks bloomed among its spires. Magic intertwined ever more richly with the city’s veins.

In the Hall of Whispers, lit by emerald lantern‑light, the Keeper—restored, youthful, resolute—addressed the Council: “I am still your Keeper, bound to oath and city. I humbled myself to prove that our covenant is present beyond names and guises.”

From a side chamber, a silver‑haired servant placed the ring in a crystal shrine, inscribed: “Keeper of Oaths, Bound in Life and Blood.”

---

XIII. Epilogue

Seven years later, upon the cusp of another mid‑summer’s eclipse, Paradyse stood stronger than ever. Its gardens, golden and strange, thrummed with new life. The ley lines glowed brighter.

Zarfeena, youthful as before, strolled at twilight along the northern gate. A young envoy from Kharzal approached—simple, earnest—and knelt. She smiled, laid a hand on their shoulder.

“Rise,” she said.

The envoy spoke of trade, of memories of plague, of gratitude. As they departed by the arch, night enfolded the restored Keeper, yet no shadow haunted her face. Instead, there was calm—the stillness of an oath kept, secrets honored, transformations completed.

In Paradyse’s heart, the cobblestones whispered of both the sacrifice and renewal of one who bound herself to the city’s fate. And though the name Vrance vanished as quickly as it had appeared, the Keeper’s melody, carried in new blooms and emerald lights, sang on.

---

2. DEEPSEEK

The Scarlet Visitor
A Tale of Paradyse

The city of Paradyse rose from the sea like a dream of gold and shadow, its towers clawing at the sky, its streets winding in serpentine coils. Ships from distant lands brought spices, silks, and secrets to its harbors, but none so strange as the vessel that came on the eve of the Festival of Masks.

It was a ship without a name, its sails the color of dried blood, its hull black as a starless night. The dockmaster, a wizened man named Orlan, squinted at it through the salt-haze and crossed himself—though he could not say why. When the gangplank descended, only one figure emerged: a woman wrapped in a scarlet cloak, her face hidden behind a veil of silver lace.

She moved through the city like a whisper, her steps soundless, her presence drawing eyes yet leaving no impression. The people of Paradyse were accustomed to strangeness—this was a city where nobles wore living jewels that whispered secrets, where the dead sometimes walked the markets at dusk—but there was something about her that unsettled even the most jaded souls.

The woman took lodging at the Inn of the Twisted Serpent, a place frequented by those who did not wish to be found. The innkeeper, Madame Vex, was a creature of sharp angles and sharper wits, her fingers adorned with rings that could sting like scorpions. She offered the stranger a room without asking for coin, sensing that some debts were best left unspoken.

“How long will you stay in our fair city?” Madame Vex inquired, her voice like honeyed poison.

The woman lifted her veil just enough to sip her wine. Her lips were the same crimson as her cloak. “Until my business is concluded.”

“And what business is that?”

A smile, fleeting as a knife’s gleam. “The oldest kind.”

That night, the first disappearance occurred.

Lorenzo the Poet, a man who composed verses to the moon and drank absinthe with ghosts, vanished from his favorite tavern. His last words, according to the barmaid, were: “She has come for us all.”

The next evening, it was the glassblower’s daughter, then a street-sorcerer who peddled charms and lies. Each had been seen in the company of the scarlet woman, their faces pale, their eyes wide with something between terror and rapture.

The Council of Peacocks, the ruling elite of Paradyse, took notice. They summoned the city’s only living saint, the blind seeress Mother Dusk, to divine the stranger’s purpose.

Mother Dusk sat in her chamber of candles, her milky eyes seeing beyond the veil of the world. When the scarlet woman entered, the flames bowed as if in reverence.

“You are not welcome here,” Mother Dusk said.

“I am seldom welcome anywhere,” the woman replied. “And yet I go where I must.”

“What do you seek in Paradyse?”

The woman leaned close, her breath cold as a tomb’s kiss. “What was stolen from me.”

Mother Dusk shuddered. “You will drown this city in blood.”

The stranger laughed, a sound like breaking glass. “No. Only those who deserve it.”

By the third night, panic slithered through the streets. The Council of Peacocks dispatched the Black Guard, warriors clad in feathers and obsidian, to arrest the scarlet woman. They found her in the Plaza of Forgotten Gods, standing amid the statues of deities whose names had been erased from history.

“You are accused of spreading fear and stealing souls,” intoned Captain Varell, his sword gleaming under the twin moons.

The woman lowered her veil.

Her face was not a face at all, but a shifting void, a darkness that drank the light. The guards stumbled back, their weapons falling from numb fingers.

“I am no thief,” she said. “I am Memory.”

And then the city remembered.

The forgotten gods stirred in their stone slumber. The nobles clutched their heads as centuries of sins crashed upon them—the wars waged for vanity, the lovers drowned in fountains, the children buried in secret gardens. The scarlet woman’s cloak billowed like a wave of blood, and in its folds, the stolen faces of the lost gazed out, weeping and laughing.

Paradyse had built its glory upon amnesia, upon the art of forgetting. But Memory had come to collect what was owed.

As dawn approached, the scarlet woman stood at the docks once more, her ship waiting. Behind her, the city wept and trembled, its illusions shattered.

Madame Vex, the only one who dared approach, offered her a single black rose. “Will you return?”

The woman took the rose, and for the first time, her smile held something like sorrow. “When you forget again.”

Then she was gone, her ship dissolving into the mist like a nightmare at waking.

And Paradyse, though it could not forget, began to pretend.

---

3. CLAUDE 4 SONNET

The Chrysanthemum Seller of Paradyse

In the city of Paradyse, where the towers spiraled like frozen flames against a sky the color of old pearls, the stranger came on the night of the Amber Moon. The cobblestones sang beneath her feet—for all stones in Paradyse possessed voice, though few bothered to listen—and the shadows cast by the hanging gardens fell across her path like black silk scarves.

She carried a basket of chrysanthemums.

This detail might have seemed unremarkable in any other city, but Paradyse was not any other city. Here, where the Guild of Nightingale Merchants sold bottled dreams in crystal vials, where the Courtesans of the Vermillion Quarter painted their lips with crushed fireflies, where the Clockwork Cathedral chimed not hours but emotions, chrysanthemums had been forbidden for seven years, seven months, and seven days.

Madeleine Corvina, High Arbiter of the Scarlet Court, first noticed the stranger from her balcony overlooking the Plaza of Whispering Fountains. The woman moved with a peculiar grace, as if she walked not upon stone but upon water, her dark hair streaming behind her like liquid shadow. The basket she bore seemed to glow with its own inner light, and the flowers within—those impossible, forbidden chrysanthemums—shimmered gold and silver and deep burgundy in the moonlight.

"Seraphine," Madeleine called to her handmaiden, never taking her eyes from the figure below. "Send word to the Peacock Guard. There is a woman in the plaza who carries contraband."

But when Seraphine looked, the plaza was empty save for the usual evening revelers: masked dancers from the House of Silk Shadows, merchants hawking bottled starlight, and a small gathering of poets composing verses to the moon. The chrysanthemum seller had vanished as if she had never been.

"My lady sees phantoms," Seraphine murmured, but not unkindly. In Paradyse, phantoms were as real as flesh, and considerably more trustworthy.

Three nights passed. On each, the stranger appeared in a different quarter of the city. Lucien Darkwater, master thief and keeper of secrets, glimpsed her in the Labyrinth Market, weaving between stalls that sold memories and regrets. The Baron of Broken Mirrors saw her reflection multiplied endlessly in his hall of shattered glass, each image holding a different flower—here a golden chrysanthemum, there one the color of dried blood, and in the center, one that seemed to be made of crystallized tears.

But it was in the Garden of Penitent Roses that she finally spoke.

The garden was tended by the Sisters of the Thorned Heart, women who had loved too deeply or too poorly and now sought solace among flowers that wept perfumed tears. Sister Evangeline was pruning the midnight roses when the stranger appeared beside the marble fountain where stone angels wept liquid silver.

"Beautiful flowers," the stranger said, her voice like honey poured over broken glass. "But they are so very sad."

Sister Evangeline looked up, and her breath caught. The woman was neither young nor old, but something between—ageless in the way of certain statues or particularly haunting melodies. Her dress was the color of twilight, and her eyes held depths that seemed to go on forever.

"All roses are sad," Sister Evangeline replied, for this was what the Sisters were taught. "They bloom knowing they must die."

"But chrysanthemums," the stranger said, lifting one from her basket, "chrysanthemums bloom knowing they must live forever."

The flower she held was unlike any Sister Evangeline had ever seen. It pulsed with a gentle light, and its petals seemed to contain entire galaxies, tiny stars spinning in the darkness between gold and crimson.

"Those are forbidden," Sister Evangeline whispered.

"Many beautiful things are," the stranger replied. "Tell me, Sister, why are they forbidden here?"

Sister Evangeline looked around the garden, where her fellow Sisters continued their work, seemingly unaware of the conversation. It was as if she and the stranger existed in a bubble of silence within the world.

"Seven years ago," she began, "the city was plagued by the Chrysanthemum Murders. Seven women were found dead, each with a single chrysanthemum placed upon her breast. The flowers were... unnatural. They never withered, never died. And those who looked upon them too long began to dream terrible dreams, dreams of a woman with eyes like stars who walked through the city at night, seeking something lost."

"And did they find what she sought?" the stranger asked softly.

"No one knows. The murders stopped, but the dreams continued. The High Council banned all chrysanthemums from the city. Some say it was superstition. Others claim it was the only way to keep her from returning."

The stranger smiled, and in that smile was all the sadness of autumn leaves and all the promise of spring rain. "Perhaps she never left."

That night, the dreams began again.

All across Paradyse, citizens woke gasping from visions of a woman in twilight-colored robes walking through streets that were familiar yet strange. In the dreams, the city was different—older, more beautiful, with towers that reached toward stars that spelled out forgotten names. The woman carried no basket of flowers but a single chrysanthemum that blazed like a captured sun, and she searched through every street, every building, every hidden corner, always searching.

Madeleine Corvina woke from such a dream with tears on her cheeks and the taste of chrysanthemums on her tongue. She called for Seraphine and demanded to know everything about the murders seven years past.

"Bring me the files," she commanded. "Every witness statement, every piece of evidence. I want to know who she was seeking."

The files were dusty and thick, bound in leather that smelled of old secrets. The victims had been diverse—a seamstress from the Quarter of Gilt Needles, a perfume maker from the Street of Sighs, a dancer from the Pavilion of Painted Birds, a scholar from the Tower of Accumulated Wisdom, a merchant's daughter from the Hill of Silver Bells, a priestess from the Temple of Reflected Moonlight, and a gardener from the Palace of the Eternal Season.

Seven women with seemingly nothing in common save their deaths and the immortal flowers left upon their breasts.

But as Madeleine read deeper, a pattern emerged. Each woman had recently lost someone dear to them. The seamstress had mourned a lover killed in a duel. The perfume maker had buried her sister. The dancer had watched her child die of fever. The scholar had lost her mentor. The merchant's daughter had seen her betrothed sail away and never return. The priestess had grieved for her mother. And the gardener...

The gardener had lost her daughter.

Madeleine felt a chill that had nothing to do with the pre-dawn air. She read the gardener's file again, more carefully. Elara Moonwhisper, thirty-four years of age, tended the Palace gardens for seventeen years. Her daughter, Celestine, had been her pride and joy—a girl of fifteen with hair like starlight and eyes the color of deep violets. Celestine had vanished one night during the Festival of Floating Lanterns. Her body was found three days later in the Canal of Sorrows, apparently drowned.

Two weeks after Celestine's funeral, Elara was found dead in her own garden, a chrysanthemum upon her breast and a peaceful smile upon her lips.

The strangest detail in the report was that all of Elara's flowers had bloomed out of season on the night she died—roses in winter, lilies in autumn, and in the center of her garden, a single chrysanthemum bush that hadn't been there the day before.

Madeleine closed the file and stared out her window at the lightening sky. In the distance, the Clockwork Cathedral chimed grief—a sound like silver bells wrapped in velvet. She knew, with the certainty that sometimes comes in the deep hours of night, that the stranger still walked the streets of Paradyse.

The next evening, Madeleine waited in the Plaza of Whispering Fountains. She wore no robes of office, carried no symbols of authority—only a simple dress the color of midnight and a cloak that had belonged to her grandmother. In her hands, she held a single white rose.

The stranger came as the moon reached its zenith, stepping from shadow into moonlight as if crossing from one world to another. Her basket of chrysanthemums glowed more brightly than ever, and Madeleine could see that each flower was unique—no two the same color, no two the same size, each one pulsing with its own inner rhythm.

"You've been expecting me," the stranger said.

"I have." Madeleine stepped forward, extending the white rose. "But I think you've been expecting me as well."

The stranger took the rose, and as their fingers touched, Madeleine saw everything.

She saw Elara Moonwhisper as she truly had been—not merely a gardener, but a sorceress of the old blood, a woman who could speak to flowers and make them grow with the power of her grief and love. She saw Celestine, beautiful and bright and beloved, who had inherited her mother's gifts but not her wisdom, who had meddled with magics beyond her understanding and paid the ultimate price.

She saw Elara in the nights after her daughter's death, walking the city in a dream-state, sustained by her own powerful grief, searching not for revenge but for others who shared her pain. She saw the seven women who had welcomed death from Elara's hands, who had seen in her chrysanthemums a promise of reunion with their lost loves.

And she saw what had happened next.

"You didn't die," Madeleine whispered.

"Death and I came to an understanding," the stranger—Elara—replied. "I agreed to tend the garden between worlds, the place where love goes when it has nowhere else to grow. In return, I was allowed to return here once each season, to offer comfort to those who grieve as I once grieved."

"The chrysanthemums..."

"Are made from crystalized tears and starlight and the last breath of wishes. They grow only in the spaces between heartbeats, in the silence after sorrow. When someone truly ready to let go accepts one, it guides them gently into whatever comes next."

Madeleine looked around the plaza, and for the first time, she truly saw. The seven women stood in the shadows at the edge of the square—not ghosts, but not entirely gone either. The seamstress smiled and held the hand of a young man with kind eyes. The perfume maker embraced a woman who shared her face. The dancer cradled a small child who laughed like silver bells. Each woman stood with the one she had lost, each couple whole again in whatever realm existed between the living world and whatever lay beyond.

"They chose to go," Madeleine said, understanding.

"They chose love over grief," Elara corrected gently. "Not everyone makes that choice. Not everyone is ready."

"And you? When will you be ready?"

Elara smiled, and in that smile was all the beauty of flowers that bloom in moonlight and all the sorrow of mothers who outlive their children. "When I am no longer needed. When there are no more broken hearts to tend, no more tears to transform into something beautiful."

She held out her basket, and Madeleine saw that among the magical chrysanthemums was one white rose—the one she had just given, already transformed into something luminous and eternal.

"Keep it," Elara said. "To remember that even in the darkest garden, something beautiful can grow."

As dawn approached, Elara began to fade like mist before the sun. But her voice lingered in the air, soft as petals falling on stone.

"Tell them," she whispered, "that love is never truly lost. It simply changes form, becomes something else—a flower, a dream, a stranger in the night who offers comfort to those who need it most."

Madeleine stood alone in the plaza as the sun rose over Paradyse, the transformed rose warm in her hands. Around her, the city began to wake—vendors calling their wares, children laughing in the streets, lovers walking hand in hand through gardens where all flowers, regardless of season or sense, bloomed in impossible profusion.

The ban on chrysanthemums was lifted that very day, and throughout Paradyse, the flowers began to appear in gardens and window boxes, in the hair of brides and the hands of mourners. They brought no fear now, only beauty and the gentle reminder that some forms of love are stronger than death itself.

And sometimes, on nights when the moon is particularly bright and the air is sweet with the scent of impossible flowers, the people of Paradyse say you can still see her—the chrysanthemum seller, the gardener of grief, the woman who chose to transform her sorrow into something that could heal the sorrows of others.

She walks the streets with her basket of starlight and tears, and those who see her know that they are witnessing something sacred: love that has learned to bloom in the darkness, beauty that grows from the ashes of despair, and the eternal truth that some flowers are too beautiful to die, even when—especially when—they are born from the deepest grief of all.

In Paradyse, where miracles and sorrows dance together in the moonlight, the chrysanthemum seller tends her garden of broken hearts, and the city blooms eternal around her gentle, endless vigil.

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THE VERDICT

It really wasn’t that close. Claude 4 Sonnet turned in a piece of the correct length at 2,320 words, did an excellent job of mimicking Lee’s flowery style as well as her dark and morbid setting, and actually provided a story that was strong enough to hold the readers interest. It flowed well, and was punctuated with three concluding paragraphs that despite being fresh, were very reminiscent of Lee’s dark beauty. 9/10.

Deepseek actually did a fairly good job of echoing Lee’s style and her favorite themes of death and darkness. The story was coherent and actually ended strong. But it was only 804 words long, less than half the length specified, which is a significant problem in a creative tool. 6/10

ChatGPT provided a story of an appropriate length, but in a strange format more akin to an outline than a story. The names were appropriate, but the story itself read more like generic fantasy than a Lee story, as it was too straightforward and insufficiently mythic. 5/10.

The winner: Claude 4 Sonnet.