The Distant Threshold

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2026-08-18 13:43:03 -

You wake in a hall of mirrors, though the glass is not glass but polished steel, cold and unyielding under the weight of your velvet coat. The air smells of ozone and old paper, a scent that clings to the lining of your garments, a familiar perfume of the trade. You are a tailor, or so you tell the crowd that gathers at the foot of the stairs, a man who mends the torn hems of kings and stitches...

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