The Faded Chronicle
The sword is heavy. Your arm burns. The steel rings against the practice dummy in the damp hall. You swing again. And again. The wood splinters. You wipe your forehead. The sweat is cold. You are old. Your joints ache. The pain is a dull throb in your left knee. You ignore it. You must not stop. The Master watches from the high bench. He says nothing. His face is a mask. You feel the eyes of...
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