The Distant Blade
The mud of the Shifting Fens did not merely rise; it breathed, a churning, iridescent slurry that swallowed Elias Thorne’s boots to the knee and whispered his name in a voice that sounded like his own, distorted and wet. Elias, a border warden of forty years with a spine stiffened by decades of standing watch, pressed his cracked rifle against the flank of a spectral stag that bled not blood...
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