The Faded Root
The dream began with the smell of wet iron and old blood, a scent that had colonized the nostrils of every man in the Keep, yet it was mine alone to bear. I stood on the ramparts, the wind pulling at my tunic like a jealous lover, watching the fog roll in from the valley below. It was not a natural fog. It was thick, gray, and tasted of ash, curling around the gatehouse with the slow,...
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