The Pale Tale
The first name the well spoke was that of Old Miller’s granddaughter, a child of four who had not stopped coughing since the frost came. Elias heard it before the bell did, a low grinding sound from the stone rim, like two millstones turning in the dark. He was on his knees in the chapel, his face pressed into the cold flagstones, fasting as he had for three days. The Pale Wasting was not a...
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