The Distant Temple
The loom clacked. It was a sharp, dry sound. Like a bone breaking. Elara sat in the dark. The candle guttered. It threw long shadows. The shadows danced on the stone walls. They looked like hands. Reaching. Grasping. She pulled the thread. It snapped. Again. The wool was old. Too old. It had been in the cellar for forty years. It was stiff. It was gray. It smelled of damp and rot. But it was...
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