The Wistful Saga
The fire took the granary before dawn. It ate through the thatch with a hungry, snapping sound, turning the dry wheat into a column of orange smoke that stretched up into the pale, bruised sky. Thomas stood on the hill, his hands gripping the cold iron of his spear. He did not move. He could not breathe. The heat hit his face, a physical weight, pressing against his skin. Behind him, the...
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