PREVIEW
... urface lit by dim, flickering lanternlight. A breeze whispers through the open windows—cool, dry air carrying with it the faint scent of ash. Braenhall is theirs now. But there is no celebration here.
Gander sits at the far end of the room, his pale fingers stained with ink as he slowly etches a sigil onto a parchment with a bone-quill. Across from him, Gorath leans against the wall like a boulder given breath—his ten-meter frame crouched unnaturally just to fit into the stone chamber, o ...
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