The Golden Echoes
You sit in the high tower of the Citadel, the stone cold against your back, watching the mist roll off the valley floor like a slow, white tide. The air here is thin and sharp, tasting of iron and old rain. You are the Royal Archivist, a title that sounds grand enough for a man who has spent forty years dusting vellum and transcribing the idle chatter of kings, but it is a lie that you have...
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