The Distant Nightmare
The mud under my boots was black and slick, tasting of iron and old blood, and I was laughing, a high, thin sound that cut through the howling wind like a splinter in a board, because the thing chasing me was not a beast, nor a demon, nor the shadow of the King’s justice, but a version of myself, wearing my own face but with eyes that had been scraped out and stitched shut with silver wire, and...
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