The Distant Blade
The wind in the Blackmoor moors did not howl; it whispered, a constant, low-frequency thrumming that vibrated in the marrow of the bones, a sound that had been etched into the very stone of our existence for three hundred years. I had walked these heathen paths for forty years, my boots worn thin as parchment, my back curved like the bow of an old oak, yet I had never once felt the ground...
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