The Wistful Skyline
The fog rolls in from the river, a thick, grey blanket that swallows the cobblestones and the iron gates of the fortress, erasing the world beyond the walls until there is nothing left but the stone, the damp air, and the sound of your own breathing, which has grown so heavy and ragged in the last hour that it feels less like a biological necessity and more like a mechanical failure of the...
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