The Faded Paradox
The iron pot sat in the center of the great hall, black and heavy as a coffin, its surface scarred by a decade of soot and service. It was not merely a vessel for stew or soup; it was the heart of the garrison, the anchor to which every soldier’s loyalty was tied. You knew this. You had watched it fill and empty, watched the steam rise like the ghosts of men who had died in the mud outside,...
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