The Distant Ghost
The hand you carry is not your own. It is a relic, a thing of bone and sinew that has been stripped of its purpose by the slow, grinding friction of duty. You are a keeper of the gate, a warden of the old stone walls that encircle the citadel, and your hand is the instrument by which you seal the breach between the known world and the void beyond. It has worn down. The skin is paper-thin,...
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