The Wistful Skyline
The road is not a line on a map but a wound in the earth, and you are walking into it. The air tastes of iron and wet slate, a metallic tang that coats the back of your throat, a reminder of the blood that has soaked into the soil for centuries. You are a man who has worn a uniform, a badge of office that now feels less like protection and more like a shackle, heavy and cold against your chest....
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