The Wistful Voyage
The iron taste of blood is distinct from the copper tang of the blade, yet you have spent so long in the arena that the two have blurred into a single, metallic hum in your teeth. You are mid-swing, your arm a blur of motion, the heavy steel of your sword singing a low, mournful note as it parts the air. Before you, the opponent is not a man, but a shadow stitched together from smoke and old...
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