The Wistful Mountain
The iron taste of blood was the first thing Edward Ashworth noticed, a metallic tang that coated the back of his throat and settled heavy in his chest as he swung the broadsword with a grace that belied the desperate, slumped posture of his body, the blade carving a silent arc through the dust-choked air of the great hall, where the chandeliers swayed in the draft of open windows and the sound...
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