The Golden Master
Kaelen. The name was not a summon but a verdict, spoken by the wind itself as it clawed through the shattered portcullis of Aethelgard, a sound that seemed to scrape the marrow from the bones of the citadel’s stone walls. He stood in the center of the Great Hall, a space that had once echoed with the clang of ceremonial swords and the low murmur of diplomatic intrigue, now reduced to a cage of...
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