The Distant Blade

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2026-08-22 21:01:31 -

The Distant Blade

The fog in Oakhaven did not roll in from the sea or the mountains; it simply grew, thick and white, smelling of wet wool and old iron. It was the third week of November, and the air had turned solid enough to chew, a gray paste that coated the inside of my lungs and whispered secrets I could not quite hear. I was twelve years old, and my hands were raw from the salt mines, the skin split and...

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