The Pale Banner
The blood on my left hand was not mine. It was thick, cold, and smelled of iron and old earth, clinging to the skin of my palm like a second, darker epidermis. I wiped it against my tunic, the rough wool tearing at the gash, but the stain only spread, bleeding into the fibers. Around me, the air hummed with a low, resonant frequency, a vibration that I felt in my teeth and the hollow of my...
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