The Distant Wound
Chapter One Mahsa Yousefi’s fingers, stained the color of rust and dried blood, pulled the shuttle through the warp with a violence that matched the drumming of her own pulse. The workshop smelled of lanolin and the sharp, metallic tang of the Grey Breath, a localized atmospheric pressure that had settled over the valley of Khorram like a wet wool blanket, distorting the sounds of the loom into...
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