The Distant Blade
The iron is cold against your palm. It sits there, in the center of the stone table. A longsword. Old. Rusted at the edge. You hold it. Your fingers wrap around the hilt. The leather is cracked. It smells of dust and dried blood. You are a soldier. You have been a soldier for thirty years. Your name is Thomas. The room is white. The walls are high. The air is thin. This is the Hall of Judgment....
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