The Distant Blade
"You’re late." The voice came from the shadows of the mill race, low and rough, like gravel shifting under a boot. Elias Thorne did not turn. He stood at the edge of the mist, his service revolver held with both hands, the metal cold enough to burn his palms. He had been waiting for this moment for two years, ever since the first report of the figure in the water, the one the locals called the...
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