The Distant Legend
The rain on the roof of the watchtower sounded like dry leaves skittering across a grave. It was a steady, grey drumming that had lasted three days. I sat in the high chair, my back against the cold stone, and watched the mud below the gate. There was nothing to see. Just the mud, and the grey sky, and the slow creep of the dark. "Is the gate open?" asked a voice from the shadows of the...
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