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. Their skin darkened to a ghastly purple as they
coughed up thicker and thicker phlegm, and in a few hours
their bodies locked up as with rigor mortis.
Poor Lutha. Gylar swallowed and sniffed back tears.
She'd been the first one, the one who had brought about the
downfall of the village. Gylar could remember going with
her into the new marsh, the marsh that hadn't been there
before the world shook. People had told their children
repeatedly not to go in. They said it had all sorts of evils in
it, but that had never stopped Lutha. She'd never listened to
her parents much, and once she got something into her
head, there was no balking her. She'd had to know about
their tree, his and her tree.
Now she was dead. Now everyone was dead. Everyone,
of course, except Gylar. For some reason, he hadn't been
affected, or at least not yet. His parents had seemed to be
immune as well, until the day they collapsed in their beds,
shivering.
Gylar rose and crossed the room. He looked out the
window to the new day that was shining its light across the
hazy horizon and sifting down over the trees skirting the
new marsh. He clenched his teeth as a tear finally fell from
his eye. If it hadn't been for the marsh, none of this would
have happened! Lutha never would have brought the evil
back with her, and everyone would be okay. But, no, the
gods had thrown the fiery mountain. They'd cracked the
earth, and the warm water had come up from below, and
with it whatever had killed the town.
Gylar banged his small hand on the windowsill
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