The Faded Chronicle
Chapter One The fog in Oren does not lift; it thins, like a bruise fading before the bone sets. I have walked this ridge for twenty years, and I know its weight better than my own name. It is a heavy thing, the silence here. It presses against the eardrums, a low hum that tastes of iron and old rain. I am Greer Buchanan, and my hands shake now. Not much, not yet, but enough to make the rifle...
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