The Distant Journey
The air in the hall tasted of iron and old wax. Thomas stood with his back against the cold stone of the fireplace, his sword raised, the tip trembling not from fear but from the sheer weight of the air itself. Opposite him, the shadow moved. It was not a man, nor a beast, but a presence that wore the shape of his father, Lord Ashworth, yet lacked the warmth of blood. The creature’s face was a...
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