The Pale Garden
The blade was not in my hand, or rather, it was not in my hand in the way that I had believed it to be for the better part of my life, for I had thought that steel belonged to the fist, that the fist belonged to the arm, and that the arm belonged to the body, a chain of iron links stretching from the soul to the earth, but as the mud of the courtyard sucked at my boots and the rain hammered...
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