The Golden Cellar
The road to the valley of Aethelgard was not a path, but a scar cut into the green flesh of the earth. It wound through the mist, a gray ribbon that seemed to dissolve into the fog before it reached the stone gates. I walked it with the weight of my office pressing against my spine, a burden heavier than the iron breastplate I had worn in the wars of the North. I was the Warden of the Gate, a...
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