The Distant Threshold
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a grey, suspended veil that turned the cobblestones of Aethelgard into mirrors of the sky. I walked through the streets, my boots heavy with the mud of a city that had forgotten how to dry. I was a man of the old arts, a listener to the whispers that lived in the walls, but here, in the shadow of the great Iron Spire, my gifts felt like a...
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