The Pale Ruin
The old stone wall at the edge of Blackthorn Village had stood for three centuries, or perhaps four—no one could say, for the records burned in the Great Fire of 1847, and the elders who remembered before that were long turned to dust. I knew the wall. I had walked it every morning since I was sixteen, my palm pressed flat against the cold lichen-crusted stones, feeling for the vibrations that...
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