The Faded Portrait
The iron gate of the Citadel groaned as it opened, a sound like a dying breath in the cold November air. I stood at the threshold, my hand resting on the pommel of a sword that felt heavier than it had the day I was sworn. The stone walls rose above me, grey and unyielding, reflecting the pale light of a sky that had no sun. This was the Hall of Judgment, the heart of the Order, and it was also...
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