The Wistful Ashes
The iron gate of the Citadel of St. Jude groaned under the weight of your hands, a sound like the death rattle of a dying god. You are the Last Warden, a title that tastes of rust and blood in your mouth, and you have held this post for forty years in a city that no longer exists, a place where the sky is a bruised purple and the streets are paved with the silence of the forgotten. The wind...
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