The Distant Temple
The fog in the valley of Oren does not behave like weather. It behaves like memory. It clings to the left shoulder of the guilty, a cold, wet weight that presses the spine into the mud until the walker breaks. You are Thomas Bradshaw, thirty-two, a border warden for the Corps, and you have carried the phantom weight of your father’s unconfessed fear for twenty-four years. He was cleared of the...
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