The Distant Legend
The cup is in your hands. It is white porcelain. It is cold. You feel the frost of the cellar clinging to your fingers. You are the Warden. This is your name now. Not Edward, who loved the lily in the garden. Not the man who held Margaret in the dark. You are the Warden of the Black Gate. The gate is stone. The stone is wet. You walk the corridor. Your boots ring. The sound is sharp. It cuts...
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