The Wistful Skyline
The iron mask was not a thing of beauty, nor was it a thing of comfort, but it was the only thing I had that had not been stripped from me by the hands of men who wore the same steel as I, men who spoke of honor in voices that had forgotten the weight of the blood they shed to uphold it, and as I stood there in the damp, echoing silence of the guardhouse, the air thick with the scent of wet...
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