The Distant Threshold
The rain had not stopped for three days, turning the cobblestones of the lower court into a slick, treacherous mirror that reflected the gloom of the vaulted ceiling above. I stood by the iron grate that separated the prisoner’s cell from the gallery, my hand resting on the cold iron, feeling the dampness seep through the leather of my glove. The air smelled of wet stone, stale bread, and the...
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