The Distant Blade
Act I "You said he was just tired, not dead," Miguel Cortes whispered, his voice thin against the roar of the harbor chains, the iron links clanking in a rhythm that felt like a slow, heavy heartbeat beneath the stone floor. The light in the cellar was the color of old bruised plums, casting long, distorted shadows that made the walls seem to breathe. Miguel sat on the damp straw, his hands...
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