The Distant Blade
The rain fell on the cobblestones. It fell with a heavy, rhythmic persistence. It was the kind of rain that did not wash things clean. It only made them slick. It made the shadows deeper. It made the breath of the living more visible. Thomas stood by the window. He held the blade. It was not a sword. It was not a gun. It was a simple piece of iron. It was the edge of his duty. He had carried it...
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