The Wistful Petal
You stand at the edge of the precipice. The air is thick with the scent of ozone and old iron. It is not wind that pushes against your breastplate, but the sheer weight of the silence. You are a knight of the Order of the White Sarcophagus. Your armor is polished to a mirror shine, reflecting a sky that has no sun, only a pulsing, violet bruise of light. This is the Threshold. The place where...
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