The Distant Blade
The hammer fell with a sound like a bone snapping, and the shard of obsidian flew from my hand, cutting a thin line across the air that did not hit the target but struck the edge of the anvil with a whisper that made my teeth ache. I looked up. Silas Vane was standing in the doorway of the forge, his coat the color of wet ash, his eyes fixed on the half-formed blade lying on the coals. He did...
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