The Distant Nightmare
The iron gates of the Citadel of Aethelgard did not creak. They groaned. It was a low, tectonic sound that vibrated through the soles of my boots, a warning written in stone and rust. I stood before them, a shadow against the pale moon. My uniform was stiff, the wool scratching my neck. I was the High Warden. I held the seal. I held the truth. And I was old. My knees ached with a dull,...
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