The Faded Root
The iron of the city was not made in forges but in the blood of those who had forgotten how to kneel, and it was in this rusted, breathing labyrinth of stone and smoke that I found myself standing, my sword arm aching with a fatigue that had nothing to do with the flesh and everything to do with the weight of the sky pressing down on the cobblestones. I was fighting not a man, but a memory, a...
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