The Wistful Skyline
The iron gate of the Obsidian Court did not creak so much as it sighed, a low, resonant moan that seemed to vibrate through the soles of my boots and up into the marrow of my bones, a sound that tasted of rust and forgotten centuries. I stood there, in the center of the cobblestone courtyard, the air thick with the scent of ozone and crushed violets, while the High Arbiter, a woman whose face...
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