The Wistful Atlas

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2026-08-20 08:11:22 -

The Wistful Atlas

The iron plate of your shield, still warm from the midday heat, smells of rust and old blood, a scent that has become so familiar to your nostrils that it is indistinguishable from the smell of your own skin, and you stand in the center of the great hall, surrounded by the deafening roar of a hundred men who are not your brothers but your instruments, their laughter a jagged thing that tears at...

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