The Distant Legend
The rain did not fall. It seeped. It came from the stones themselves, a cold, gray weeping that soaked through wool and bone. I stood at the gate of the keep. The gate was iron. The iron was rust. The rust was red. Like blood. Like old blood. I held the loaf. It was hard. A brick of rye. Stale as death. The only thing I had. The only thing left. I had walked for three days. My boots were gone....
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