The Pale Banner
The cellar door is locked, and you are the key, though you do not know it yet. The air down here tastes of wet stone and old iron, a flavor that coats the back of your throat with a metallic tang that feels less like blood and more like memory. You are small, you are cold, and you are terrified, but you do not scream. Screaming is a luxury for those who have something left to lose, and you have...
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