The Wistful Mountain
The iron gate of the Citadel of St. Jude groans open, a sound like a dying breath dragged across gravel. You step onto the cobblestones, your boots striking the wet stone with a rhythm that feels less like walking and more like a heartbeat under skin. The air here is thick, heavy with the scent of ozone and old rust. You are a Warden, or so the ledger says, but you know what you are. You are a...
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