The Distant Nightmare
The dream was always the same, a loop of rust and breath. I stood in the blackstone vault, the air thick with the scent of ozone and old stone, and the Iron Chalice sat on the altar, pulsing with a light that had no source. I reached for it, my hand trembling, and the metal whispered. Not words, exactly, but the sound of a name being scraped from a tombstone. My name. Elias. I woke with the...
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