The Distant Nightmare
The fire did not roar. It whispered. You hear it in the stones. You feel it in the marrow. The city of Aethelgard burns, but it does not fall. This is the curse. The architecture stands. The spires pierce the smoke like black needles stitching the earth to a bruised sky. You are Thomas. You are the keeper of the archives. You are the sinner. You climb. Your lungs burn. The air tastes of ash and...
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