The Distant Blade
The hilt of the sword was slick with sweat, the leather grip worn smooth by twenty years of use. Elias Thorne stood in the mud of the village square, his knuckles white around the pommel, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps that misted in the cold air. Across the cobblestones, the bakery door hung open, revealing a scene of ruin that made his stomach turn: shattered crockery, spilled flour,...
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