The Wistful Show
The road to the Citadel of Aethelgard is not a path but a wound in the earth, a jagged scar of black stone that cuts through the weeping moors. You walk it with your back broken by the weight of the cinder-iron, a collar of fused slag and sorrow that hums against your throat like a dying bee. The air tastes of ash and old rain, a metallic tang that coats the back of your tongue and refuses to...
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