The Distant Blade
The iron gate stood. It had always stood. Three hundred feet of wrought iron. Black. Cold. Rust ate the base. The wind hit it. A low hum. Elias pressed his back against the stone wall. The stone was wet. Cold seeped through his wool. He did not shiver. Shivering was for men with choices. He had none. The city slept. Or pretended to. The gas lamps flickered. Orange light. Flicker. Dark....
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