The Wistful Saga
You stand at the edge of the precipice, where the air tastes of ozone and old iron, and you hold the Sword of Aethelgard in your hands, its hilt wrapped in leather that has long since cracked under the weight of your secret. This is not a dream, though it feels like the lucid, terrifying clarity of one, a state where the boundaries between the self and the void have dissolved into a shimmering,...
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