The Wistful Skyline
The rain in the Citadel of Aethelgard does not fall so much as it seeps, a slow, grey hemorrhage of moisture that saturates the ancient stone and clings to the breath of those who dwell within the high towers, where the air is thin and tastes of iron and old parchment. You are not supposed to be here, not in the sense of physical presence, for you have been dead for three years, a fact that the...
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