The Distant Threshold
The wind did not blow; it pulled, a long, sustained tug against the fabric of the world, stripping the leaves from the oaks until the branches stood naked and white against the bruised twilight sky. You stand at the edge of the precipice, not of a cliff, but of a boundary, a thin membrane of mist that separates the stone causeway of the old castle from the void beyond. Your hands are gloved in...
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