The Distant Threshold

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2026-08-19 17:23:16 -

The ink did not dry; it bled. It seeped into the pores of the parchment, then into the wood of the desk, and finally, the readers claimed, into the skin of the woman who had signed it. Margaret Holloway stood in the center of the Great Hall, the air thick with the scent of ozone and old paper, and watched the signature crawl across the document like a living vein. The room was a cage of gold...

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