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The Abacus

In the tower, the abacus sat on the table. It balanced the scales between good and evil. As of now, the beads were scattered across the rods in, what looked like, a random pattern. It wasn’t random, but a dead language. Was it still spoken? Still read? Nay, it wasn’t a language that could be learned or taught, but was ingrained in the protectors, like an arrow stuck inside the chest.

Muddy footprints surrounded the table where the abacus rested, but there was no one present in the tower. The tower was a singular sentinel in the woods, surrounded by an army of trees and roots. It was where Rapunzel was once kept, but since her departure, the protectors of the abacus stored away and called the tower their own.

But who did the muddy foot prints belong to? The door to the tower was sealed off and the stairs were destroyed. There was no maiden that allowed visitors with the strength of her long hair.

If even one bead was moved, the scales between good and evil would be tipped.

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