The Distant Blade
The blade was not made of steel, but of bone. It was a shard of the protagonist’s own femur, polished to a translucent, milky whiteness by the friction of years spent in the dark. In the dream, the air tasted of copper and old rain, a metallic tang that coated the back of the throat and settled in the lungs like ash. He held the shard in his right hand, the grip familiar, the weight precise,...
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