The Pale Bridge
You stand at the edge of the chasm. The air is thin, tasting of ozone and old iron. You are a sentry, though you do not carry a gun. You carry a ledger. Your uniform is gray, the fabric stiff with the weight of unwritten orders. The world below is not a village or a city. It is a void, shimmering with the faint, sickly glow of something biological. This is the Threshold. It is ancient, older...
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