The Distant Blade
The transfer order lay on the steel desk, the paper yellowed and brittle as the skin on my father’s knuckles, the ink faded to a brown that matched the rust on the gate hinges. I signed it, the pen scratching against the fiber like a mouse gnawing at wood, and looked up to see Arthur Thorne being led through the double doors, his head bowed, his shoulders hunched as if carrying a weight he had...
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