The Distant Journey
The iron gate of the Obsidian Hall shudders under the weight of the siege, the hinges groaning a low, tectonic complaint that vibrates through the soles of your boots. You stand in the courtyard, the mud slick and cold against your skin, holding a hammer that has seen better decades. You are not a soldier. You are a cobbler, a man of leather and thread, yet here you are, swinging a tool of...
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