The Pale Meridian
The heavy oak doors of the Keep do not open for you, but rather yield, a slow, groaning surrender that smells of damp wool and old iron, and as you step into the antechamber, the air is thick with the dust of centuries and the silent weight of a court that has forgotten how to speak, for here in this place where power is measured not in gold but in the precision of a blade’s edge, you are not a...
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