The Distant Blade
The chisel slips. It is a small thing, a fraction of an inch, but the sound it makes is a crack that splits the silence of the workshop like a gunshot. I look down at the stone, at the Great Seal, and see the fissure running through the granite. My hands are bleeding, though I have cut nothing. The blood wells from the pores, red and warm, soaking into the grey dust. This is the rule of...
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