The Distant Garden
You wake with the taste of iron and old stone in your mouth, the damp cold of the undercroft seeping through the thin wool of your tunic, a sensation that has become so intimately familiar it feels less like an intrusion and more like a second skin, a constant, low-frequency hum of physical discomfort that you have learned to ignore in favor of the sharper, more acute pain of duty and the slow,...
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