The Distant Blade
The fever dream began with the smell of ozone and wet wool. It was a scent that did not belong to the present, but to the memory of a storm that had passed through the valley three weeks prior, leaving the air heavy and the grasses bent like broken bones. Thomas Vane lay in the narrow cot at the edge of the sanatorium’s long, dim corridor, his eyes closed, yet seeing everything with a clarity...
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