The Distant Blade
The letter lay on the table, its seal broken, the ink still damp with the urgency of the Crown’s command. It was a standard requisition, dry and brittle as the winter air, demanding the tithe of grain from the hamlet of Oakhaven before the solstice. I read it twice, my eyes tracing the bureaucratic architecture of the demand, before folding it into my coat pocket. Outside, the light was...
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