The Golden Myth
The stone of the Citadel of Aethelgard did not merely stand; it held its breath. For three centuries, it had absorbed the screams of the damned, the prayers of the pious, and the silent, grinding weight of history, until the mortar between the blocks had turned to a substance indistinguishable from bone. Captain Elias Thorne stood in the central atrium, the air thick with the scent of damp...
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