The Wistful Witness
The iron of the sword bit into my palm, a cold, metallic taste that flooded my mouth even as the heat of the burning thatch rose to scorch the air. I stood in the center of the village square, my breath ragged and shallow, the weight of the ancestral blade heavy in a hand that had not yet learned its true purpose. Around me, the faces of the elders were masks of stone, their eyes fixed not on...
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