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Roland Deschain did not stop when the world ended; he simply adjusted his pace.
In the high, thin air of the Borderlands, the sky had turned the color of a bruised plum. The sun was a pale, flickering candle, guttering in a draft that blew from the gaps between universes. Roland knelt by a stream that ran with silver liquid—not water, but the liquefied memories of a city that had never existed. He didn't drink. He knew the price of drinking "Used Time." "He’s coming, Roland," a voice rasped.
As he reached the foot of the Tower, the first toll of the bell shook the ground. The sound wasn't metal on metal; it was the sound of a billion voices screaming "Goodbye" at once.
Roland Deschain did not stop when the world ended; he simply adjusted his pace.
In the high, thin air of the Borderlands, the sky had turned the color of a bruised plum. The sun was a pale, flickering candle, guttering in a draft that blew from the gaps between universes. Roland knelt by a stream that ran with silver liquid—not water, but the liquefied memories of a city that had never existed. He didn't drink. He knew the price of drinking "Used Time." "He’s coming, Roland," a voice rasped.
As he reached the foot of the Tower, the first toll of the bell shook the ground. The sound wasn't metal on metal; it was the sound of a billion voices screaming "Goodbye" at once.