The Wistful Skyline
The iron gate of the Blackwood Foundry did not creak; it screamed. It was a high, thin shriek that tore through the stagnant air of the courtyard, announcing our arrival to the men who stood upon the ramparts. I gripped the hilt of my sword, the leather worn smooth by years of sweat and blood, and felt the familiar, cold weight of steel settle against my palm. Beside me, Elias walked with the...
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