The Faded River
You are bleeding, and the blood is not yours, or perhaps it is, for in the iron-clad belly of this ship, where the air tastes of rust and old sweat, the distinction between self and other has long since dissolved into a thick, red sludge that coats the inside of your mouth and the backs of your eyes. You are the Warden, a title that sounds like a gatekeeper of stone and silence, but here, in...
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