The Distant Blade
The fog did not merely obscure the road; it swallowed it whole. It tasted of iron and wet ash, a metallic tang that coated the back of Elias Thorne’s throat as he pulled the reins of his carriage tighter. The wheels creaked against the cobblestones, a rhythmic groan that seemed to echo from the bones of the earth itself. He was a man of small hands and sharp eyes, a clockmaker by trade, though...
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