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Iron Draws Blood

 We step into the daylight. 


Me, from the shade of a hospitable tree. All bone branches, gnarled roots. Like hands reaching. Whether in warning or blessing, it doesn’t matter. 


Him, from his lair, his tavern and dominion, all shadows. All menacing tricks, all dark turns of mind to shape others. Break them. With words, or with steel. 


Around us, watchful and frightful expressions. Faces drawn tight by merciless predators, and a yet still merciless sun. Receded eyes and recessed hopes looking out. 


Me, set. Silent. I make my peace. With the sand and stone that may claim me as it has claimed so many others, regardless of their legend. Let it claim what it will. My victory, or my bones. 


Him, smile wide as a raging wildlife, and as friendly. Chattering like a murder of ravens. Hollow words for a man filled only by darkness, by blood, and hollowed in return by it. Smirking like my blood has already hit this silent, stoic sand. 


Waiting. 


The heavy iron clock speaks its word, declares the contest open. 


And with a single report, it is closed.

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