The Distant Whispers
The storm did not break the sky so much as it tore the fabric of the world along a seam that had been fraying for centuries, leaving the valley of the River Ouse suspended in a twilight that was neither day nor night but a bruised, suffocating purple that pressed against the eyes like a wet cloth. In the hovel of mud and thatch that stood precariously on the riverbank, where the roots of the...
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