The Distant Blade
The air in the valley of Oren’s Hollow hung thick and viscous, not with the usual damp chill of late autumn, but with a heavy, metallic sweetness that tasted like old copper and burnt sugar on the tongue, a scent that the locals had long ceased to name and had instead learned to breathe through, to ignore, to let settle into the very fibers of their wool coats and the grain of their...
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