The Distant Blade
The blade is heavy. You feel it in your shoulders before you feel it in your hand. It is a thing of iron and history, cold against your palm, slick with the sweat of your own fear. You are standing in the room. The room is small. The walls are close. The air is thick. It smells of dust and old paper and the metallic tang of blood. You are a soldier. Or perhaps you were. The ranks have blurred....
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