The Pale Meridian
The sword broke. It did not shatter with a dramatic crack, but with a dull, wet snap, like a dry branch under a heavy boot. The blade, once a gleaming mirror of polished steel, was now two jagged halves. One lay in the mud. The other hung limp in Lord Silas’s hand, a useless, heavy anchor. He stood in the center of the courtyard. The air smelled of ozone and old blood. Around him, the walls of...
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