The Distant Blade
The rain in the hollow did not fall so much as it hung, a gray curtain that smelled of wet pine and rot, obscuring the rusted gate that Silas Vance was trying to hold shut with his bleeding hands. He was twelve years old, small for his age, and he screamed not in fear but in a raw, animal plea to the man standing ten feet away, his father Elias, who stood rigid in the downpour as if carved from...
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