The Golden Scar
The rain in the Valley of Ash does not wash things clean; it merely makes the grime slicker, turning the cobblestones into mirrors that reflect only the bruised sky and the jagged spires of the Central Spire. You are walking away from the Spire, your boots heavy with the wet clay of the lower districts, your shoulders hunched against the chill that seeps into your bones before it reaches your...
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