The Wistful Letter

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2026-08-17 11:43:04 -

You stand before the gate of the fortress, the iron cold biting through your wool coat. The mist hangs low, a grey shroud over the moors, swallowing the distant spires of the old keep. You are not a lord, nor a priest, but a warden, a keeper of the perimeter, though the title means little here. You hold the vial in your left hand. It is heavy, not with liquid, but with the weight of what it...

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