The Pale Garden
The iron gate of the abbey groaned, a sound like a man dragging his own coffin through the mud, and I stood before it with my sword drawn, the cold biting into the calluses of my hand, a pain that was sharp and real and the only thing I could trust in a world that had turned to smoke and whispers. I was the Warden, the last of the Order of the Silver Key, and I had sworn an oath to protect the...
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