The Distant Threshold

added blog Literature

2026-08-19 16:16:14 -

The rain tasted of iron. I spat it out. It stuck to the back of my throat. Thick. Cold. We were three days out from the city. The carriage groaned. The wheels screamed against the mud. "Stop complaining, Silas," I said. Silas did not look up. He was grinding a root in his mortar. The sound was rhythmic. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. "Who told you to stop?" he asked. His voice was low. A rasp. Like...

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