The Distant Threshold
The rain in Aethelgard did not fall; it hovered, a fine, persistent mist that turned the cobblestones into black mirrors. It was the kind of weather that had no season, suspended in a grey twilight that belonged to no specific hour. In this city of stone and silence, time was not a river but a stagnant pool, and the citizens moved through it like stones dropped into deep water, sinking slowly,...
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