The Distant Blade
Thorne. The name was called out by the King, not as a summons to honor, but as a command to stand. It hung in the air of the throne room, heavy and cold, settling on the shoulders of Elias Thorne, forty-two, senior warden of the High Court. Elias did not move. He stood by the heavy oak doors, his hands resting on the iron handles, feeling the metal bite into his palms. The winter had come early...
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