A plague wipes out many people's abilities to lie, purifying them— evolving them. Or so they say.
But you? Your body rots as you retain your ability to lie. Flee, little bird, flee to the place they whisper of, before they catch your tongue. That castle across the lake, with the long, long bridge.
Choose the path you will take—who you might learn to love. Choose whether you will lie, or tell the truth.
Oh, and, fragile dove? Beware of the sweet monsters in the night.