The Distant Summer
The wind that tore through the valley of Caledonia did not merely blow; it whispered in a tongue older than the stones themselves, a guttural and wet sound that tasted of iron and rot, and it was into this howling, blackened abyss that Elara stepped, her feet sinking into the mud that felt less like earth and more like the soft, yielding flesh of a dying god. She carried the seal, a heavy disc...
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