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Weekly Contest #322
The wind carried dust through the hollow streets of Ashbourne. Once, people had called this a village. Now it was only bones: sagging roofs, broken fences, doors swinging loose on rusted hinges. The fields were gray and cracked, like old skin. Even the well in the square gave nothing but mud. Hunger lived here now. It sat in every doorway. It followed the children, thin as shadows.The elders had called for the Choosing. Their decree rang out like the toll of a cracked bell: Ashbourne cannot survive divided. One leader must rise. One voice, o...
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