The Distant Blade
You count the hours in the sickroom, not by the clock, which has stopped, but by the weight of the silence pressing against your ears. One hour is the time it takes for the ash to settle in Kael’s throat, a dry, gritty sound that is not quite a cough. Two hours is the length of the walk to the village square, where the elders sit on their stone benches, their faces hard as the iron nails in...
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