The Distant Wound
The blade of the halberd shatters against the obsidian skull of the thing, sending a shower of black glass spraying across your visor, and you are already moving, already rolling into the wet mud of the courtyard, the weight of your armor pressing down on your ribs like a coffin lid, because you know, with the cold, absolute certainty that has governed every hour of your life since the Siege of...
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