The Wistful Saga
The seal was broken, not by a crowbar or a blade, but by the sheer, accumulating weight of my own silence. It lay on the table in the center of the room, a circular disc of lead and tin, stamped with the sigil of the Order of the Iron Gate, a symbol that had once meant protection and now felt like a mouth sewn shut. I was a Warden of the Deep Archive, a title that sounded grand to those outside...
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