The Distant Blade

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2026-08-17 17:55:59 -

The Distant Blade

The banquet hall smelled of ozone and stale wine. It was not wine. It was the fluid of the veins in the walls. Margaret sat at the head of the table. The table was a slab of polished obsidian. It reflected her face. The face was wrong. Too sharp. Too pale. She held a blade. The blade was small. A surgical scalpel. It was in her right hand. Her fingers were trembling. The metal was cold. It was...

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