The Faded Frontier
The moss is wet. It clings to your throat like a cold hand. You are in the cellar. The stone walls weep. You press your back against the damp. Your sword is gone. Your shield is broken. You are alone. The air is thick with rot and old blood. It smells of iron and decay. You do not move. You breathe. In. Out. The rhythm is slow. The rhythm is heavy. A light flickers above. A single candle. It...
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