The Faded Chronicle
I Ignacio Robles sat on the cold stone steps of the town square, his hands stained black with oil and his breath misting in the thin air. It was the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year, and the Great Bell that had stood over Oria for three centuries was gone, dismantled into a heap of bronze and iron that lay in the center of the cobblestones like a shed skin. He had done it himself,...
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