The Distant Temple
The rain fell in sheets, gray and relentless, beating against the canvas of our wagon until it sounded like applause for a tragedy no one had asked to see. We were three days out from the last sane town, heading toward the Ridge, where the old mill sat. Or what was left of it. My brother, Elias, sat beside me. He did not look at the rain. He looked at the wheel. His hands were calloused, thick...
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