Death ran riot in this city. Souls crowded the streets, trapped in cycles of their own last moments of life. The air was filled with shrieks, wailing, the chop of weapons, the crushing collapse of stone and the suffocating smoke. Layered beneath this were countless other deaths – those that were set down, like successive snowfalls, on any place where humans gathered. Generation upon generation. Yet, Quick Ben slowly realized, this conflagration was naught but echoes, the souls themselves ghostly. ‘Gods below,’ he murmured in sudden understanding. ‘This is but memory – what the stones of the
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