The Golden Scar
The iron bar of the gate groans, a low, tectonic complaint that vibrates through the soles of your boots, and you stand there, the weight of the world balanced on the tip of your blade, while the rain hammers against the slick, obsidian stone of the courtyard, a relentless, cold drumming that drowns out the whisper of the wind in the dead elms. You are the Warden of the Threshold, a title that...
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