The Wistful Crossroads
Counting the sacks of grain is a ritual of weight and silence, each burlap bundle heavy with the promise of survival and the threat of scarcity. There are forty-two sacks in the lower storehouse of Oakhaven, and you have counted them three times since dawn, your fingers tracing the rough weave until the skin on your thumbs is raw and peeling. The stone walls of the fortress are dry today, a...
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