The Wistful Cipher
The snow in the Valley of Aethelgard did not fall; it descended like a judgment, heavy and silent, burying the ancient stone walls of the Citadel under a blanket of white that seemed to breathe. Captain Julian Thorne stood at the edge of the precipice, his hand resting on the hilt of a sword that had not seen blood in three decades, though the rust on its blade was the color of dried blood. He...
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