The Faded Ruin
The hand is the first thing you notice. It is not a hand of flesh, but of bone. White, stark, and fractured. It hangs from the ceiling of the high hall, suspended by a chain of iron links that have rusted into a deep, arterial brown. You stand below it. The dust in the air is thick, tasting of ash and old blood. You are here to break it. That is the law. That is the order from the High Steward,...
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