The Faded Paradox
The rain did not fall. It hovered. Silas stood in the center of the circle. The stone was cold. The mist was thick. He held his sword. The blade was dull. It had not been sharpened in a week. He looked at the fog. The fog looked back. Or so he thought. He was a Keeper of the Gate. The title was heavy. The weight was real. It pressed on his shoulders. It pressed on his mind. He had served the...
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