The Distant Legend
The rain falls on the cobblestones of Aethelgard not as water, but as a slow, grey erosion of memory. You stand at the edge of the Watchtower, your hand resting on the iron rail that has rusted into the shape of your palm over the last decade. The city below is a sprawl of wet slate and dim, flickering lanterns, a labyrinth of shadows that seems to breathe in time with the wind. You are the...
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