The Distant Blade
The blade was in my hand. It was not steel. It was light. It was cold. I held it up. The air screamed. "Drop it," said the voice. It was not a voice. It was a pressure. I did not drop it. I tightened my grip. My fingers bled. The blood was black. It smelled of iron and rain. "Who are you?" I asked. The air answered. "I am the end of the line." I looked at my sister. She was behind me. She was...
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