The Distant Legend
The iron in your hand grows heavy, a cold weight that pulls at the shoulder, and you realize with a sudden, terrifying clarity that you are not the one holding the sword, but the one being held by it, the steel biting into the meat of your grip as if it were trying to swallow your fingers whole, and the air in the Great Hall is thick with the scent of burning tallow and old blood, a cloying...
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