The Distant Legend
"You are bleeding through the floor, Thomas." The voice did not come from the man standing in the doorway, but from the plaster ceiling, a dry, rasping whisper that seemed to leak down like dust. Thomas Bradshaw did not look up. He was a master of the loom, a man whose hands were mapped with the white scars of thread cuts and the permanent indentations of shuttle rests, and he was currently...
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