The Pale Meridian
The ink is dry, but the smell of iron still clings to your fingertips, a metallic tang that tastes like blood on the back of your throat. You sit in the center of the stone circle, the moss damp and cold against your knees, the ancient oaks standing like silent, judgmental sentinels around the perimeter. It is midnight, or perhaps it is the hour before dawn, for the light here does not obey the...
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