The Wistful Incense

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2026-08-18 03:30:48 -

The iron is cold. It has always been cold. You hold it in your palm, the weight of it a familiar ache, a dull throb that matches the beat of your heart. The workshop smells of rust and old oil, the air thick with the dust of centuries. You are the Keeper of the Gate, a title that means nothing now, a ghost of a role in a world that has moved on. The castle is empty. The lord is gone. The wars...

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