The Distant Threshold
You are walking on the cobbles of the old quarter, where the stones have worn smooth as river beads under centuries of heavy boots and the air tastes of wet iron and ancient dust, and you feel the weight of your ledger pressed against your hip like a stone in a pocket, a cold, unyielding anchor to the bureaucracy that has swallowed your soul, and you are Thomas Bradshaw, clerk of the Third...
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