For a long, long time in Hieron, it was autumn. Crisp branches snapped under foot. Still lakes caught the reds, yellows, and oranges of the leaves overhead, stuck eternally between life and death. The waves taunted children and elder alike, a step too cold for all but the bravest of swimmers. And there was laughter, and planning, and good food. People would stand around bonfires--out on the beaches of Velas, in the communal pits of Rosemerrow--and trade stories. Old stories, the kind passed down from parent to child. They bent in new directions with each telling, but they never fully changed. They were trust worthy and familiar, but like a poor cider, dead on the tongue. But it is winter now. Snow has arived in Velas, and it is time for cold tongues to learn new words.

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