The Faded Chronicle
The iron gate shrieks as you force it open, the sound tearing through the stillness of the courtyard like a wounded animal. You are small, no more than twelve years old, with mud caked into the creases of your knuckles and a bruise blooming purple across your left temple. You stand before the high stone walls of the Orphanage of Saint Jude, a place that smells of damp wool, boiled turnips, and...
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