The Pale Echo
The separation from the city of Aethelgard was not a sudden severing but a slow, agonizing peel, like the skin of a bruised pear coming away from the fruit, leaving behind a residue of sweetness and rot that clung to the tongue long after the act was finished, a taste that was indistinguishable from the iron tang of old blood and the damp, mossy exhale of the underground rivers that fed the...
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