The Distant Whispers
You are walking through the mist that clings to the valley floor like a shroud woven from the breath of the dead, your boots sinking into the soft, rotting carpet of autumn leaves that have fallen from the ancient oaks, their golden and rust-colored veins now crumbling into the black earth, and you feel the weight of the iron cuirass you wear not as a burden but as a second skin, a part of your...
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