The Faded Paradox
The blade in your hand is not a sword, but a heavy, rusted fire poker, and it is slipping through your fingers because the metal has grown cold and slick with the sweat of your own terrified palms, and you are standing in the center of the circular room that used to be your father’s study, surrounded by the silence of books that have not been opened in a decade, and your opponent, a man whose...
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