The Faded Chronicle
The dream was made of ink. It smelled of wet stone and old blood. A long corridor stretched out before him. The walls were not stone. They were pages. Thousands of them. Pressed together. Thick. Heavy. The paper was gray. It wept black tears. He walked. His boots were heavy. They were made of leather. The leather was cracked. He felt the weight of the sword at his hip. It was cold. It was...
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