The Wistful Silence
The outer gate of Oakhaven did not break; it was simply pulled open by the weight of the Baron’s warhorse, a sound like a dry branch snapping in a quiet forest that echoed through the cobblestone streets. Thomas Bradshaw, twelve years old and thin as a reed, crouched in the cellar beneath his mother’s sickbed, his fingers trembling violently as he clutched the bone flute carved from his...
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