The Faded Root
The iron key sat in my palm, cold as a winter stone, its teeth worn smooth by generations of hands that had never known the mercy of rest. I stood alone in the center of the Great Hall of Aethelgard, a place that existed in the folds between waking and sleep, where the stone walls breathed with a slow, tectonic patience. The air here was thick, heavy with the scent of damp moss and old blood, a...
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