The Distant Threshold
The ink had long since dried on the parchment, but the smell of it lingered, a sharp, metallic tang that clung to my fingers like a second skin. I sat in the high-ceilinged office of the Bureau of Correspondence, a room that smelled of damp stone and old fear, watching the candlelight flicker against the windowpanes. Outside, the war did not roar; it whispered. It was a quiet thing, this...
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