The Distant Clue
The iron taste of blood mixes with the wet, metallic scent of the royal orchard, and you are on your knees in the mud, your hands slick with the red of the King’s own veins. You are small, a boy of fourteen winters, and the weight of the sword in your grip is a heavy, dead thing, swinging in slow, deliberate arcs that cut through the air with a sound like tearing silk. This is not a fight. This...
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