The Faded Frontier
The iron key was cold, heavier than it looked, its teeth worn smooth by decades of turning locks that had never truly wanted to be opened. Silas Vane held it in his palm, the metal biting into the calluses of his hand, a small, sharp pain that grounded him in the damp chill of the corridor. He was forty years old, though the scars on his forearms, the map of a life spent breaking and mending,...
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