The Distant Threshold
The rain does not fall here. It hangs. A thick, gray veil that dampens the air until it tastes of iron and old stone. You stand at the edge of the forest, your boots sinking into mud that feels less like earth and more like flesh. You are a soldier. You know this. The weight of your rifle is a familiar anchor against your chest, a dead weight that grounds you when the world turns to mist. But...
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