The Distant Blade
The iron rain fell not from the sky but from the lungs of the city, a rust-colored sleet that slicked the cobblestones of the lower district with a viscous, oily sheen, turning the world into a blurred smear of grey and red where the gaslights flickered with a sickly, jaundiced pulse, and I stood in the center of this rotting jewel, my hands trembling not from the cold which was a familiar,...
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