The Wistful Throne
The wind does not merely blow here; it speaks in a tongue of rusted iron and shattered glass, a language you have spent three days deciphering while walking the spine of the world, that jagged, impossible ridge where the sky bleeds into the earth and the ground refuses to hold your weight. You are small, a speck of grey wool and bone against the vast, indifferent architecture of this place, and...
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