The Distant Whispers
The rain fell in sheets. It hammered the mud. Aldric did not care. He held the staff. The wood was warm. It pulsed. Like a heart. He ran. His lungs burned. The air tasted of iron. Of old blood. The fog swallowed the path. It swallowed the past. It swallowed his name. He was only the runner. Only the keeper. The weight on his back was heavy. Not a pack. A shroud. It was grey wool. It smelled of...
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