The Distant Blade
The iron gate was cold. I gripped it with both hands. The metal bit into my skin. "Come in, Thomas," Father said. His voice was low. It did not rise. It never did. I stepped inside the Abbey. The stones were wet. They smelled of rain and old moss. The air was thick. It pressed against my chest. I felt heavy. My bones felt like lead. Father walked ahead. He did not look back. His robes were...
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