The Distant Promise
The sword bit deep into the mud. It was a rusted thing. A jagged shard of iron. It had belonged to a king long dead. Now it belonged to the boy. His name was Thomas. He was twelve years old. His hands were small. They were black with dirt. They were shaking. The rain fell in sheets. Cold needles. They stung his face. The world was gray. The sky was a bruised plum. The forest was a throat. It...
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