The Pale Banner
The stone of the Citadel does not just stand; it remembers. You know this in the marrow of your hands, where the chisel’s vibration has worn away the skin over the knuckles, leaving them raw and pale as the banner that flutters from the highest tower. It is the second year of the siege, and the cold has seeped into the mortar, making the ancient walls brittle, yet they hold, stubborn and...
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