The Distant Temple
The bread is dry. You know this. You have known it since the first morning in the Keep. You press your thumb into the crust. It crumbles. It offers no resistance. It is just dust waiting to fall. You eat it anyway. You must. The body is a machine that requires fuel, even when the spirit is hollow. You are the Warden of the Outer Gate. This is your title. It is a heavy thing to carry. It sits on...
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