The Distant Garden
The iron gate did not open for you, though you stood before it for three days and three nights, your armor rusting into the soil of the courtyard, your breath a pale mist that hung in the stagnant air like the ghosts of prayers long since forgotten. You are the Warden, the last of the Order of the Silver Throat, a lineage of men who speak only in judgment and silence, whose duty is to maintain...
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