The Distant Blade
The iron gate did not break; it sang. It was a low, resonant thrum that vibrated through the soles of your boots and up into the marrow of your shins, a sound like a cello string snapped in a quiet room. You stood in the center of the foundry, the air thick with the taste of rust and ozone, watching as the great blade of the gate, the one that had sealed this place for forty years, began to...
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