The Faded Apartment
You walk through the archway of the Citadel, where the air tastes of iron and old dust, carrying a clay pot that feels heavy in your hands, as if it contains not soup, but the accumulated weight of your own unspoken confessions. It is the age of the High Wardens, a time when the walls were built to keep the chaos out and the truth in, and you are but a junior scribe, a prisoner of your own pen,...
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