The Wistful Crossroads
The iron in your hand is not merely cold; it is the accumulated chill of centuries, a weight that pulls your shoulder down into the earth, and you stand at the center of the whirling mist where the laws of physics have dissolved into the memory of what they once were. The blade in your grip is a longsword of a shape that has not been forged in living times, its steel dark and pitted, worn...
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