The Wistful Silence
The heavy oak door of the Keep closes behind you with a finality that feels less like a sound and more like the snapping of a bone, sealing the last of the autumn air outside and trapping the damp, cold breath of the stone within your lungs. You stand in the threshold of the great hall, the place where you have held the keys for three decades, a place that has grown into your skin until you can...
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