The Distant Threshold
The sky tore open above the Scottish Highlands. It did not rain. It did not hail. It bled. A thick, viscous crimson fluid poured from the bruised clouds, soaking the heather, staining the granite, and turning the world into a wound that would not close. Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the cliff, his uniform soaked and stiff with the gore. He was a man of order, a soldier of the State, and he...
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