The Golden Master
The iron gate groans, a sound like a dying animal, as you force it open against the weight of centuries. You are wet. Not just with sweat, but with the cold, mineral taste of the cellar air that has seeped into your bones. Your uniform is torn at the shoulder, the fabric stained with mud and something darker, thicker. You do not know if it is yours. You do not have the energy to check. You are...
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