The bread was stale, hard as a brick, and yet it smelled of home, of the warm ovens in the valley below, a scent that tore at Callum’s throat with a physical pain. He sat on the edge of the obsidian cliff, his legs dangling over a void that did not drop into earth but into a swirling, violet mist that hummed with the low, resonant frequency of a thousand forgotten prayers. He was a soldier of...
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