The Golden Mirror
You stand before the gate of the Obsidian Keep, your hand resting on the pommel of a sword that feels less like a weapon and more like a burden, heavy with the weight of laws written in ink that has long since dried and faded into the stone. The air here is thick, tasting of ozone and old blood, a taste that clings to the back of your throat and refuses to be washed away by the bitter wind that...
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