The Wistful Witness
The iron gate does not close behind you. It never does. In this place, where the air tastes of copper and old ash, doors are suggestions, not barriers, and you have learned to walk through the lattice of shadows as easily as you walk through the fog that chokes the valley. You are the Inquisitor, though the title feels like a coat that has been worn too thin, fraying at the elbows, revealing...
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