The Distant Wound

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The Distant Wound

Act I "Does the ink know what it is doing?" Opal Pell asked the empty gatehouse, his voice cracking against the rusted iron of the frame. He stood at the threshold of his ancestral manor, the air thick with the metallic tang of the approaching storm. In his hands, he held his father’s iron-banded coat, the heavy wool stiff with age and something else, something wet. The lining bled. Black,...

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