The Distant Wound
The tower fell. It did not crumble. It snapped. Miles stood on the roof. He watched the spire tear away from the stone. The sky turned a bruised purple. Dust filled his mouth. He coughed. The air tasted of iron and ash. He was not supposed to be here. The Architects had sealed the upper levels three days ago. They called it a quarantine. They said the resonance was too high. They said the walls...
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