The Wistful Asylum
The dream began with the sound of iron grinding against stone, a rhythmic, hollow moan that vibrated through the marrow of the old man’s bones before he even opened his eyes. He lay in the center of the vast, vaulted chamber of the Citadel of Saint Jude, the air thick with the scent of damp moss and ancient dust, and he knew, with the unshakeable certainty of a soldier who has read the wind’s...
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