The Distant Joke
The bell tolls not from a tower, but from the heavy, iron-rimmed pot suspended over the central hearth of the Hall of St. Jude’s, its bronze tongue striking the rim with a sound that is less a chime and more a declaration of finality. You stand in the center of the room, the soot from the peat fire clinging to your hair and the coarse wool of your tunic, your hands stained with the dark,...
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