The Distant Promise
The iron keys hang heavy on your belt, a cold weight that presses against your hipbone with every step you take across the damp flagstones of the Keep. You are the Master of the Vault, a title that sounds more like a curse than a honor, and you have held it for thirty years. Thirty years of counting bolts, polishing hinges, and listening to the groan of old wood settling in the deep, windowless...
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