The Distant Blade

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2026-08-20 05:23:40 -

The Distant Blade

The banquet hall of the old textile mill in Ashworth was not a room but a cavern of dust and suspended light, where the air hung thick with the smell of stale varnish and the ghosts of ten thousand looms that had once sung their iron songs in the dark. Eleanor Fairchild stood at the center of the circle, her dress a heavy, charcoal wool that seemed to absorb the meager candlelight rather than...

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