The Wistful Crossroads
The iron buckle snaps with a sound like a bone breaking, and the leather strap flutters to the muddy ground as the executioner’s blade descends, yet you do not die. You stand in the square of Ashworth, the rain slicking your hair to your forehead, while the crowd roars a chorus of approval for the crime they have just committed. This is the fifth time. The fifth time you have worn the shackle,...
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