The Distant Blade
The ink on your wrist is hot. It is not the warmth of blood, but the dry, scorching heat of a brand pressed into living flesh. You are Elias, forty-two years old, the Royal Archivist of a capital city that exists in a perpetual, gray fog, where the spires of the palace pierce the mist like broken teeth. You want to sign your name to the correction of a single line in the King’s lineage. It is a...
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