The Distant Temple
The mud of the valley was not merely wet but alive, a churning, sentient slurry that sucked at your boots with the desperate, wet grip of a starving mouth, and you, Sir Aldous of the Iron Guard, found yourself not commanding but surviving, your sword arm raised not in conquest but in a frantic, exhausted arc as the air around you shimmered with the oppressive weight of old, forgotten laws. The...
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