The Distant Wound

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2026-08-19 05:49:32 -

The Distant Wound

The iron gate is cold against your palms. You have been here for a thousand years, or perhaps only a season. Time in the Spire does not move in lines. It pools. It stagnates. You are the Warden of the Deep. Your uniform is black wool, heavy with the weight of old blood and older laws. The fabric itches. It always itches. It is a reminder that you are still flesh, still bone, still capable of...

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