The Distant Threshold
The fog did not merely hang over the village of Oakhaven; it breathed against the stone walls, a damp, grey exhale that smelled of wet wool and rotting ferns. Sergeant Elias Thorne sat alone in the watchtower, his boots pulled up to his knees, the leather creaking with every slight shift of his weight. He was a man carved from the same rough granite as the hills, his face a map of lines that...
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