The Distant Threshold
The banquet hall of the Ashworth Estate smelled of roasted pheasant and the metallic tang of old blood, a scent that clung to the velvet drapes and settled into the pores of my skin with a persistence that defied the open windows and the late August breeze that swept across the manicured lawns of the industrial valley below. I stood in the corner, near the heavy oak doors that led to the...
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