The Distant Threshold

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2026-08-19 19:17:05 -

The feast in the Hall of Whispers was not a celebration of joy, but a ritual of binding. The air smelled of roasted boar and damp wool, thick with the smoke of tallow candles that burned low and sputtering in the iron sconces. Sir Thomas Bradshaw sat at the edge of the long oak table, his armor polished to a mirror sheen that reflected the flickering flames. He was a man of iron will and quiet...

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