The Distant Temple
The rain does not fall upon the valley of Ashworth so much as it seeps, a slow, gray hemorrhage from a sky that has forgotten how to be blue. You stand in the center of the old barn, the air thick with the scent of wet straw and the metallic tang of old blood, and you hold the stone. It is warm in your hand, warmer than it should be, pulsing with a rhythm that matches the beating of your own...
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