The bell tower was not a tower. It was a throat.
I knew this because it sang. Not with sound, but with pressure. A low, tectonic hum that vibrated in the marrow of my shinbones. I stood in the square below it, the cobblestones slick with rain that smelled of iron and rot. Above me, the stone structure rose into a sky the color of a bruised plum. It was the year of the Grey Star, or so the...
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