The Distant Blade
The iron does not sleep, even when you do, and in the high, cold silence of the Citadel’s inner sanctum, you hold the blade across your knees as though it were a sleeping child, feeling the weight of its history settle into the hollows of your bones, a gravity that pulls at the very marrow of your existence. The air here is thin, tasting of ozone and old stone, and the torchlight flickers with...
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