The Distant Whispers
The gate is locked. You stand before it. Iron bars. Cold. The fog clings to your boots. You are the warden. The keeper of the threshold. The path beyond is the only truth. You must keep it clear. You must keep it safe. The order is absolute. The order is old. The stone is damp. It weeps. You touch the lintel. The mortar crumbles under your glove. You remember the oath. You remember the weight...
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