The Distant Machine
The letter is stained with ash. You hold it in your left hand. Your right hand grips the hilt of your short sword. The metal is cold. It bites into your palm. You do not let go. You are walking through the snow. The snow is deep. It swallows your boots. It is quiet. The silence is heavy. It presses against your eardrums. You are a captain. You serve the King. You have marched for three days....
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