The Distant Threshold
The rain fell on the village of Oakhaven not as water, but as a fine, gray silt that smelled of iron and old graves, settling into the crevices of the cobblestones and the pores of the skin with a persistence that defied the season. Elias Thorne walked through it, his boots heavy with the accumulated weight of years, each step a deliberate act of defiance against the dissolving nature of the...
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