The Golden Myth
The iron gates of the sanctuary stood ajar, breathing in the damp, heavy air of the highlands, and Elias Thorne walked through them not as a pilgrim seeking grace but as a soldier returning to a front that had long since gone silent. He carried no sword, for the age of steel had bled out centuries ago, replaced by the quiet, corrosive rust of history, yet he wore the weight of his profession in...
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