The Distant Blade
The blade was older than the family, older than the house, older even than the memory of the hand that had first ground it from the mountain's iron heart. It hung now in its glass case in the hall of Ashworth Hall, where the light from the bay window fell across it at an angle that made the steel burn with a cold, distant fire. Edmund Ashworth had not opened the case in forty years. He did not...
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