The Distant Temple
The shuttle flew through the warp with a sound like a bone snapping in the dark, and I did not flinch, though the air in the workshop was thick with the scent of old blood and damp wool. My hands were raw, the skin peeling away in red strips as I gripped the wooden handle, but I did not stop, for the loom demanded motion, and the winter solstice was three days away, and my sister Clara was...
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