The Distant Journey
The sword bites deep. You feel the cold shock of it before you hear the scream. It is a sound that does not belong to a throat. It is the sound of tearing silk, stretched thin over a bone. You pull the blade free. The wound does not bleed red. It bleeds light. A pale, sickly yellow that clings to the steel like sap. You stare at the hilt in your hand. Your grip is tight. Your knuckles are...
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