The Distant Blade

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2026-08-18 10:32:00 -

The Distant Blade

I dreamed of the fog again. It was not the white, clean mist of a New England morning. This was thick, oily, and smelled of sulfur and wet iron. I stood in the town square of Ashworth, the cobblestones slick under my shoes. The gas lamps hissed, spitting sparks into the void. I was looking for my father. He had been gone for three years, dead in a mining accident, yet here he was, or something...

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