The Distant Blade
The morning light in the workshop of Silas Vane was not merely illumination but a physical weight, pressing against the frosted glass of the window where the iron filings had settled in a rust-colored film. It was the sort of stillness that precedes a storm, a suspended breath in the lungs of the town of Oakhaven, where the smokestacks of the textile mills poked their grey fingers into a sky...
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