For centuries the enclaves have taught us to mourn the old world and fear the new one. They told us Bible stories and demon tales, sent out knights and priests. There’s nothing more dangerous, they said, than change. A single Secretary in the ass end of the outlands won’t undo all that—but I can pick at the seams, tell different stories. I can tell them of the shrike, who changed because she had to, and the sick bride, who did the same. I can tell them to mistrust the church and to leave their offerings in the hills, instead, for the strange new creatures that live there. If the kings come
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