The Golden Farce
The wind did not howl across the Greyspine Wastes; it screamed, a thin, reedy shriek that tore at the edges of reality and left them frayed and tattered like old lace. Here, in the heart of the kingdom’s forgotten borderlands, the earth was a patchwork of iron-red soil and blackened shale, and the sky was a bruised and swollen thing, perpetually heavy with the promise of a rain that would never...
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