The Wistful Voyage
You are the last man standing in the long, dim corridor of the old manor, your hand resting on the hilt of a sword that feels less like steel and more like a cold, dead bone. The air here is thick, heavy with the scent of wet stone and something sweeter, something rotting and floral that clings to the back of your throat. You have held this blade for so long that it has become an extension of...
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