The Distant Joke
The road to the Citadel of Ash was not a road but a scar, a deep red gouge in the white snow that seemed to bleed into the sky. You walked it with a heavy step, your boots crunching against the frozen earth. In your hand, you carried the Book. It was not a large thing, no thicker than your palm, bound in leather that had lost its sheen and gone matte and dull under years of rain and sun. The...
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