The Golden Farce
The dust in the valley of Aethelgard did not settle; it hung in the air like a fine, grey veil that suffocated the light and stained the skin of every soul who breathed it. For thirty years, the name of the Warden had been whispered in the taverns with a reverence that bordered on the grotesque, a figure of iron and silence who stood between the civilized kingdoms and the howling, starless void...
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