The Distant Threshold
The iron gate of the Abbey of St. Jude’s was not a barrier so much as a wound in the landscape, a jagged tear of black metal set against the pale, weeping limestone of the refectory walls where the morning mist clung to the stones like a burial shroud. Elias Thorne stood before it, his back stiff with the rigid discipline of a man who had spent forty years holding a line that no longer existed,...
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