The Wistful Asylum

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2026-08-19 00:39:04 -

The iron bars of the watchtower groaned against the stone, a low, mournful sound that cut through the thick fog rolling off the river below. I gripped the hilt of my sword, my knuckles white, feeling the cold seep into the marrow of my bones. Below, in the muddy courtyard of the old prison, my father stood still as a statue carved from the very rock of the cliff. He was old now, his back bent...

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