The Golden Greenhouse
The road to the Citadel is not a road at all, but a scar in the earth. It cuts through the grey moor, a ribbon of packed mud and crushed bone that winds upward into the teeth of the mountains. You walk it. Your feet are numb. The cold is a physical weight, pressing against your ribs, squeezing the air from your lungs. You carry nothing but the memory of what you left behind, and the hunger that...
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