The Distant Garden
The gate was locked. It had always been locked, or so the men of the Order had told him. Sir Elias stood before the iron bar, his hand resting on the cold metal. He was a soldier, a man of duty, but the air here tasted of old blood and wet stone. It was not a world he knew. The sky was the color of a bruise, swollen and purple, pressing down on the hills. He had been sent to find the source of...
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