The Distant Temple
You stand in the center of the rotunda, the stone floor cold and slick beneath your iron-shod boots, the air thick with the scent of wet ash and old blood. The torches sputter in the draft, casting long, trembling shadows that dance against the rough-hewn walls like restless spirits. You are the Warden of the Gate, a title that sounds heavier than the duty it entails, and for thirty years you...
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