The Distant Blade
The brass trigger guard of the service revolver was cold against my thumb, a small, hard fact that felt heavier than the iron in my bones. I stood at the edge of the platform in Harrowgate, the steam from the locomotive rising in thick, grey curtains that smelled of coal smoke and wet wool, masking the scent of the town below. The year was 1912, and I was thirty years old, a sergeant with...
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