The Distant Blade

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2026-08-23 08:29:49 -

The Distant Blade

The dream was always the same. Ink under my fingernails, black and cold, spreading up my wrists like a bruise that would not heal. I woke with the taste of iron in my mouth, the sound of wind rattling the leaded glass of the scribe room. My name, Elara, was carved into the oak desk, deep and jagged, a scar I had inflicted on myself years ago. I was thirty-two. The winter solstice was three days...

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