The Distant Blade
The air in the Imperial Mint tasted of ozone and old blood. Leila Mahfouz stood alone in the obsidian hall, her fingers white-knuckled around the hilt of a rusted dagger. She was thirty-two, an orbital farm hand who had traded her seeds for this single, forbidden task. Her father lay in the cell below, his lungs filling with the grey sludge of the returning ice, and she needed to forge a coin...
0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews