The Distant Blade
You count the hours in the satchel, four of them, heavy with the scent of pine resin and the ghost of the furnace fire, as you climb the switchback path toward the monastery of Saint Aldhelm, the air thinning until it feels less like atmosphere and more like a vacuum pressing against your eardrums. The vessel, the "Distant Blade," rests against your hip, a cylinder of glass so clear that it...
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