The rain did not fall so much as it was exhaled by the bruised purple sky, a cold, wet sigh that soaked through the wool of my cloak and settled deep in the marrow of my bones, turning the ancient mud of the pilgrimage road into a treacherous, sucking mire that sought to pull me down into the earth’s dark, hungry mouth. I stood at the edge of the Thornwood, where the oaks twisted into shapes...
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