The Distant Wound

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2026-08-24 09:00:41 -

The Distant Wound

The winter solstice was three days away, and the ink in my well had begun to smell of iron. I sat at the oak desk in the center of the room, the Ledger of Names open before me, its leather cover cracked and stiff with age. My hand trembled as I dipped the quill. The town of Oakhaven slept under a blanket of gray snow, unaware that its history was being rewritten in my blood. I was forty-two...

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