The Distant Blade
The chisel slipped from my fingers and struck the stone, sending a jagged shard of limestone skittering across the cold floor of the basement archive. I did not flinch, though the pain in my wrist was a sharp, bright thing, a reminder that my body was no longer a reliable vessel for the work I had chosen. I am Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, and I have spent the last two decades cataloging...
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