Your breath is coming in short gasps when you reach the stable door. Thick, acrid smoke pours from every opening, causing you to choke and your eyes to burn, while up on the roof you see brightly colored flashes as the thatch goes up in flames. You stop, looking back across the bailey toward the donjon, catching just a glimpse of your mother's silky blue kirtle through the billowing smoke. Then taking a deep breath, you force the door open and step inside.
11th place (out of 51) in the 7th Annual Interactive Fiction Competition.
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