The Distant Summer

added blog Literature

2026-08-24 12:47:59 -

The fire did not smell like wood. It smelled of ink and old blood. I stood in the square of Oakhaven, my hands trembling, watching the archive burn. The Warlord’s men were already moving on, their boots crunching over the ash that began to settle on the cobblestones. I was twenty-four. I was a scribe. I had spent my life copying the names of the dead, and now the dead were eating my livelihood....

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