The Distant Threshold
The rain had not stopped for three days, a ceaseless, gray veil that turned the cobblestones of the village square into slick mirrors reflecting the bruised sky, and it was in this damp, unyielding atmosphere that Elias Thorne, the head of the watch, prepared to leave his post for the last time, his heavy cloak soaked to the bone, his heart a leaden weight in his chest that seemed to drag his...
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