The Wistful Atlas
The iron gate did not creak, for it was not iron, but the solidified breath of a thousand centuries of silence, and Sir Thomas Bradshaw stood before it with the rigid posture of a man who had forgotten how to breathe, his armor, forged in the soot and sweat of the mortal realm, feeling less like protection and more like a cage that had slowly grown around his bones over the last decade of...
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