The Distant Blade
The oak tree in the courtyard stood with a stillness that defied the wind, its roots gripping the earth so tightly it seemed to be an organ of the house itself, a living pillar of wood and leaf that had watched the generations pass like water over a stone, and it was in the shadow of this unchanging thing that Thomas Bradshaw found his sleep, not in the softness of a bed but in the hard,...
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