The Distant Whispers

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2026-08-20 16:48:21 -

The feast was a thing of smoke and cold iron, held in the hollow of a valley where the mist clung to the grass like a shroud that refused to be lifted. We had gathered to celebrate the retaking of the high pass, a victory that tasted of ash in the mouth of every soldier who had marched through the mud to claim it. The fires crackled with a dry, brittle sound, spitting sparks into the darkening...

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