11. Torment
Torment oozes from the very stones of Ringhaven. At night, cries echo through the alleys, not from throat or beast, but from the walls themselves. Some say the town remembers. Travelers awaken with bruises shaped like hands, with dreams of drowning in flowerbeds, of being buried in pollen too thick to scream through. One scribe who camped in the town square was found days later, mumbling a single word: “Blossom.” His fingers were raw, clutching thorny petals that had grown from his palms.
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