The Distant Whispers
The rain had not stopped for three days, and the mud of the high road had turned into a soup that swallowed our cart wheels up to the hubs, pulling us toward the village of Oakhaven with a slow, grinding inevitability that felt less like travel and more like a burial. I sat in the back, my back against the cold, damp wood, listening to the rhythmic creak of the axles and the low, guttural...
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