The Golden Myth
The cold in the city of Aethelgard did not merely chill the blood; it seeped into the marrow, a damp, persistent rot that matched the decay currently eating away at the left hand of Sergeant Elias Thorne. You stood before the heavy oak doors of the Guild Hall, the wind whipping your woolen cloak against the cobblestones, your right hand clutching the hem of your tunic while your left hung limp...
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