The Wistful Incense
The memo was pinned to the watchtower door with a rusted nail, the paper yellowed and brittle in the October light. It listed the new protocol for the Iron Gate, signed in the sharp, angular script of Chief Mercer. You read it twice, the ink bleeding slightly where the morning damp had touched the page. The order was simple: maintain the seal at all costs. The wind was picking up, pushing the...
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