The Distant Blade
The quill in Elias Thorne’s hand was not merely a tool of trade but an extension of his own failing body, a slender bone of swan feather that trembled against the vellum with the same palsy that had stolen the steadiness from his fingers over the last five years of service to the Duke. He knew the smell of the ink better than he knew the scent of his wife’s hair, a mixture of iron gall and oak...
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