The Faded Chronicle
The bell tolls. It is not a church bell. It is the iron clapper of the gate, striking the bronze rim. You hear it in your teeth before your ears catch the sound. You are standing in the courtyard. The stone is cold under your boots. It is a cold that goes to the bone. You are a man. You have a sword. The sword is heavy. It is a good weight. It is the only weight that feels true. You look up....
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