The Faded River
The bell tower shook. Dust rained from the vaulted ceiling, a grey snow that settled on my shoulders. I held the staff. The wood was slick with sweat. Below, the crowd roared. It was not a roar of people. It was a roar of wind, of stone, of the earth itself complaining. I was the Warden. Or so the ledger claimed. The ink was still wet on my name. But the ink was black. It was not blood. It was...
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