The Distant Journey
The sword was already broken. You know this. You feel the splinter in your palm, the jagged edge of your own making pressing into the meat of your hand. It is a small thing. A shard of steel. But it is enough to bleed. You are on the road. The mud is deep. It sucks at your boots with a wet, greedy sound. The rain is cold. It soaks through your tunic. It freezes on your skin. You are walking...
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