The Distant Blade
The silk of your mourning veil is the only thing that remains intact in the labyrinth of your memory, a shimmering, black thread that you clutch in your fist as the air around you thickens into a viscous, amber haze that tastes of iron and old rain. You are standing in the Great Hall of the University of St. Jude, though the stone walls have begun to bleed a pale, luminescent sap that drips...
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