The Faded Paradox
The leather of your shoulder pauldron creaks, a dry, arthritic sound that seems to echo too loudly in the damp, stone-lined silence of the interrogation room, and you realize with a sickening lurch that the stain spreading across your tunic is not blood, but the thick, iridescent oil from the lamp that has just been snuffed out by the guard standing before you, a man whose face is obscured by a...
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