The Faded Road
The road is not a line. It is a wound. You walk it. You have walked it for three hundred years. Your boots are leather, stiff with age. Your mind is sharp. You are an investigator. You seek the source of the decay. The town is gray. The stone is damp. The air tastes of iron and wet ash. This is the era of myths, yet you treat it with clinical precision. You measure the rot. You catalog the...
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