The Distant Blade
The rain fell upon the valley of Aethelgard not as water, but as a fine, grey silt that clung to the stone walls of the manor and seeped into the marrow of the bones of those who dwelt within, a persistent and cold intrusion that Erastus Blackwood had long ceased to resent, having spent forty years in the quiet, monastic labor of keeping the cellar dry and the shelves stocked with the rarest...
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