The Golden Crossing
The mud under your boots is black and cold, a slurry that seems to pull at your boots with a wet, sucking hunger. You are not a soldier in the traditional sense, for you wear no uniform of wool or leather, but the iron collar around your neck is heavy, and the sword at your hip is real enough to draw blood. You are a Warden of the Crossing, a title that sounds like a job but feels like a curse....
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