The Pale Banner
The dream does not wake you; it swallows you, whole and salted, pulling you down into the thick, breathing dark of a place that smells of wet wool and old blood, where the sky is a bruised purple that never seems to break and the ground beneath your feet is not dirt but something soft, spongy, and alive, pulsing with a rhythm that matches the frantic hammering of your own heart which you cannot...
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