The Distant Blade
The silver star sat in your palm, cold and heavy as a coin that had been dropped in a well. It was tarnished, the points dulled by the grease of a hundred shifts, but the metal was solid, unyielding, and it cut into the meat of your thumb if you held it too tight. You woke with the taste of iron in your mouth, the kind of metallic tang that lingers after a nosebleed, and for a moment you could...
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