The Distant Nightmare

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2026-08-20 14:41:17 -

The sword was still wet with the black ichor of the beast when I looked up, the blade trembling in my grip not from exertion, but from a cold that had seeped into my marrow. The air in the cathedral nave did not smell of incense or old stone, but of wet earth and something sweet, like rotting fruit left in the sun. I was not a priest, nor a king, but a man who held the boundary. The boundary is...

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