The Distant Blade
The stone was cold, a hardness that bit into Elara’s palms with a persistence that felt less like friction and more like memory, and she scrubbed the salt crust from the courtyard flagstones with a vigor that bordered on violence, her breath misting in the sharp, metallic air of the late afternoon. The Old Mill stood before her, a jagged tooth in the landscape, its central blade spinning in a...
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