The Faded Ruin
The spoon is cold in your hand, a sliver of rusted metal that has lost its shine to the damp, and you press it into the mortar between the stones with a violence that feels less like work and more like a prayer, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps that taste of iron and mildew. You are Elias, a scribe of the Citadel, thirty years old and hollowed out by the silence, and you have only...
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