The Faded Chronicle
The dream began with the smell of wet ash. It was thick. It coated the back of the throat. It tasted of old smoke and copper. Thomas woke. The room was dark. The walls were stone. They wept with condensation. He lay on the straw. His body ached. Not the ache of age. But the ache of being broken. He sat up. The air was cold. A single candle burned in the corner. It flickered. It threw long...
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