The Distant Blade
The rain in London did not fall so much as it settled, a grey, suffocating shroud that pressed against the fogged glass of the attic room where Elara sat. The year was 1914, though the air in the cramped space above the baker’s shop felt older, thicker, steeped in the dust of centuries past. Elara held the object in her hands, her fingers tracing the cold, dark wood of the hilt. It was a sword,...
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