The Wistful Asylum
The road to the Citadel of St. Jude was not paved with stone, but with the packed ash of centuries, a grey ribbon winding up the mountain’s spine toward a fortress that seemed less built than grown from the rock itself. Elias walked it with a limp that had become his second shadow, a rhythmic thud of wood and leather against the earth. He was a man carved from regret, his face a map of lines...
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