The Distant Blade

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2026-08-20 21:41:24 -

The Distant Blade

The banquet hall of the Whitmore Estate smelled of roasting lamb, crushed rosemary, and the stale, metallic tang of old money. It was a smell that hung in the air like a shroud, heavy and unyielding. Eleanor sat at the far end of the long oak table, her spine rigid, her fingers laced so tightly together that her knuckles had turned the color of parchment. Across from her, Lord Ashworth presided...

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