The Golden Maze
The iron gate of the citadel is already closed when you arrive. The air inside is thick, tasting of rust and old blood. You are not a prisoner here, though the guards look at you as if you were. You are the Inquisitor. Your name is not spoken in the hallways anymore. Only your title. You wear the gray wool tunic of the Order, stiff with sweat and the dust of the road. Your hands are bound not...
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