The Pale Banner
You are running, though the ground beneath your boots is not earth but the shifting, gelatinous dark of a dream that refuses to let you sleep, and the air tastes of copper and burnt sugar, a cloying sweetness that coats the back of your throat like a lie you have swallowed too many times. The forest around you is not made of wood but of ribs, vast and white, arching overhead in a cathedral of...
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