The Wistful Crossroads
The road to the Iron Gates was not a road at all, but a scar of pale stone cut through the black, breathing forest, a path that existed only when one looked directly at it and vanished into mist the moment one’s gaze strayed to the trees on either side, forcing a walker into a state of perpetual, dizzying focus where the air tasted of copper and old rain and the silence was so heavy it pressed...
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