The Wistful Witness
The road was not a road but a vein of black ice, stretching out into a fog so thick it tasted of copper and old iron. You walked it because you had to, your boots crunching with a rhythm that sounded like breaking bones. You were a soldier of the Old Guard, though the war you were marching toward had ended a century ago, or perhaps never started at all. The air here in the Grey Wood was heavy,...
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