The Golden Scar
The great hall of the Citadel did not smell of rot, as one might expect of a place so long abandoned to the silence of the world. It smelled of ozone and old stone, a sharp, metallic tang that lingered on the back of the tongue like the memory of a struck match. We had gathered there for the Feast of the Quiet, a ritual that had become less a celebration and more a penance over the last three...
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