The Distant Blade
The order was written in ink so black it looked like a bruise on the pale paper. Thorne held it up to the grey light of the station, his fingers trembling not from the cold, but from the damp that had settled into his knees three days ago. He wanted the pension. He wanted the chair by the fire. He wanted to be gone before the Haze took the rest of him. The train hissed, a long, dying breath,...
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