The Distant Whispers
The mud on my boots had not dried since I left the riverbank at dawn, a thick, cloddy paste of silt and decay that felt less like earth and more like the grave soil of my own past clinging to my ankles as I trudged up the steep, winding path toward the stone sanctuary of Oakhaven, where the air grew colder and thinner with every step and the scent of pine resin and old dust replaced the rotting...
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