The Golden Scar
The iron gates of the Citadel of Aethelgard did not rust, for they were forged from the marrow of the dead kings, and as I pushed through the heavy, groaning bars into the courtyard, the air tasted of ozone and old blood, a metallic tang that coated my tongue and reminded me that I was walking into a place where the laws of men had long since surrendered to the laws of gods. I was a soldier, or...
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