The Wistful Petal
The gate closes behind you with the finality of a coffin lid. You are standing in the courtyard of the High Court, a place where the stones are worn smooth by centuries of judgment and the air tastes of iron and old dust. You are a knight, though the word feels less like a title and more like a wound. Your armor is dented, scratched by a fight that happened an hour ago, a fight that ended not...
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