The Golden Echoes
The tower did not fall. It burned. Mara stood at the base, her hands pressed flat against the cold stone. The heat was a living thing. It licked at her eyelashes. It tasted of copper and old rain. Above her, the spire twisted in the wind. The wind was screaming. It was not a sound. It was a voice. It knew her name. She had come here to die. Or so she thought. The village was gone. The fields...
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