The Distant Blade
The quill was heavy in Elara’s hand, its feather worn thin at the base where her thumb had gripped it for three years of copying psalters and parish records. She held it suspended over the parchment, the tip trembling not from the cold that seeped through the stone floor of the scriptorium, but from the memory of the blade in her dream, a rusted thing that had sliced through the air without...
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