The Pale Meridian
The clock tower struck four. It did not chime. It screamed. A low, grinding shriek of rusted iron against iron. The sound tore through the quiet of Oakhaven. It settled in the bones of the men who stood on the cobblestones. They waited. They always waited. The town was gray. The sky was gray. The river was a slow, dead vein of mud and silt. It ran through the center of the valley. It split the...
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