The Distant Blade

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2026-08-21 20:56:37 -

The Distant Blade

The dream always began with the smell of rotting apples, a thick, cloying sweetness that clung to the back of my throat like dried blood. I was standing in the high, vaulted halls of the Athenaeum, the air cold and still, holding a basket of bruised fruit that had turned black and soft in the hands of a man I could not see. The man was my father, or perhaps he was the Keeper, or perhaps he was...

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