The Wistful Mountain
The stone floor of the Citadel’s high hall is cold enough to bite through the soles of your boots, a chill that travels up your legs and settles in the marrow of your bones, yet it is nothing compared to the icy silence of High Marshal Valerius as he stands before you, his hands clasped behind his back, his face a mask of institutional rigidity that has not shifted in thirty years of service....
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