The Wistful Crossroads
The road is not a path but a wound in the earth, a long, gray scar that stretches through the mist of the highlands. You walk it with the heavy, rhythmic precision of a man who has spent his life measuring distance in paces and blood. Your boots, iron-shod and thick, strike the wet clay with a sound like the closing of a small coffin. Around you, the air is thick, almost solid, carrying the...
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