The Distant Blade
You count the roots. One. Two. Three. They are white. They are blind. You hold them in your palm. They feel like cold bone. You are a scholar of botany. You know their names. You know their uses. You know their poisons. You are walking through the moor. The fog is thick. The air is wet. It tastes of iron. It tastes of rot. The path is narrow. It cuts through the heather. The heather is black....
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