The Distant Metropolis
The iron-grey fog clung to the walls of the Citadel of Saint Jude, a damp and suffocating shroud that smelled of wet stone and ancient decay, as Captain Elias Thorne walked the long, echoing corridor toward the Hall of Judgment, his boots striking the flagstones with a rhythmic, metallic precision that seemed to underscore the heavy silence of the institution. He carried no sword, for the...
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