The Distant Blade
The air in the cellar is thick with the scent of damp earth and rotting apple skins, a cloying, sweet perfume that clings to the back of your throat and settles in the hollows of your chest like a heavy, invisible shroud. You sit on the rough-hewn stone floor, your back pressed against the cold wall where the mortar has crumbled away over centuries, your hands resting in your lap, fingers...
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